One Way Out
by hifunctioning
Summary: In Which Sherlock Returns Post-Reichnbach, John Nurses Him Back To Health, Sherlock Fails At Sociopathy, Mycroft Picks Up the Milk, and the Boys Are Hunted Through London By Sebastian Moran. Non-slash Bromance or Pre-slash, as you wish. Discussion of suicidality/suicide attempt. Violence.
1. Chapter 1

John steps out of the tube, limping slightly, and heads towards the stairs. _Ping._ His mobile sounds a text message alert as he climbs up and out of the tunnel into the dull cold of the London night. He makes no effort to dig his mobile out of his coat. There was a time when he would have begun scrambling through his layers immediately, he would already have the mobile out in his hand by now, and it would be Sherlock, with some urgent, asinine request. But now, there are no texts worth scrambling for. Whoever it is can wait until he gets home, or until morning, it doesn't matter.

He's exhausted. It's been a long, busy day at the surgery. Which is perfect. No time between patients, no time for proper lunch or tea, no time for anything until he is numb with fatigue and then he can put one foot in front of the other until he is on his sofa, letting the buzzing light of the telly wash over him, until he opens his eyes the next morning to do it again.

300 meters, turn left, 100 meters, left again, 150 meters, turn right, 70 meters and stop. John's mobile rings as he unlocks the door and continues to ring two, three, four, five times as he steps into the lift. He watches the numbers flit by above the lift door. It's a nondescript building, newer construction, poor quality, won't last. He can afford the rent with his pension as long as he keeps getting shifts at the surgery, and he has been. He's been picking up as many shifts as he can, covering for other doctors, taking all the holidays, dreading his days off.

Ninth floor, the lift stops with a lurch as if it remembered just in time. The doors slide open and John trudges under flickering fluorescent lights toward his flat at the end of the hall. He steps inside, closes and bolts the door behind him, hangs up his coat, and sets his keys on the table without turning on the light. He can do this because he knows the table is still there, and he also knows his keys will still be there in the morning. Living without Sherlock means things are always where he put them, his laptop doesn't disappear while he's in the loo, small carcasses don't suddenly turn up among the breakfast dishes, his toothbrush is always and only used for teeth.

The light still off, John turns away from the door and toward the sofa, lit by the streetlights from the window. Mid-step, he freezes. There is an armchair facing the sofa, and extending from the armchair, two impossibly long legs.

In one painfully slow motion, the legs uncross and rise from the chair. John swallows and forces himself to look at the rest of the body, which is the body of a dead man. John doesn't believe in ghosts. The face staring at him looks all wrong, pale skin made grotesque by blue and red and green flashing from the street, shadows hollowing out the eyes and cheeks, ghastly, but very much alive.

"Hello John." That voice is unmistakeable. He clenches his fists, bites the inside of his cheek, and reaches behind him to turn on the light. The bluegreen eyes are burning into him. One corner of the mouth starts to twist, tentatively, into a smile. "I'm back, John. I'm alive." The dead man steps forward, so slowly, as if he's afraid of startling a small animal. "John, it was the only way. I had to fake my –"

Sherlock anticipates the right hook and ducks just in time, but that only brings him closer to the left uppercut, which he doesn't see coming, doesn't expect that blow to throw his face back into the right fist, and his arms are up to block the next blow, but then an elbow drives into his stomach, throwing him to the floor. John is straddling him in an instant, driving the left hook down against Sherlock's face, feeling the satisfying crack of knuckles against cheekbone, and bringing his arm back to strike again, but this time he sees a bloodied white face, dark curls, still grey eyes, he knows this too well, that blood streaked across that face, the image that is always floating at the edge of his mind, always threatening to take over, only this time the grey eyes are looking at him and they blink.

John jumps up and staggers back. Sherlock stands, traces his long fingers over his temple and cheek, across his bottom lip, under his chin, quickly inventorying all the places John's fists made contact, and examines his fingers to see the blood he has wiped away. He clears his throat, "Yes, you're upset – "

John turns away.

"John, you must let me explain."

"Shut. Up. Let me think."

Sherlock opens his mouth to suggest that John should stick to what he knows and leave thinking to professionals, but considers that this might not be a good time, and sucks in his breath sharply instead. He notes how John's back tenses in response, and concludes that he made the correct decision.

John takes ten very deep breaths and turns toward the kitchen. "Kitchen" is a generous term. There's a hot plate, a microwave, a minifridge, and a very small sink. It's good for making tea and not much else, but John needs to think, and making tea is calming. He puts the kettle on to boil. He needs to think. About what? He can hear Sherlock breathing behind him. Sherlock is breathing. He needs to think about this: Sherlock being alive, here, in his flat, what the hell is he supposed to do with this? He turns the kettle off. Whiskey, not tea. He grabs the bottle and a glass from the pantry.

"I'd prefer tea," announces Sherlock casually, perhaps trying a bit too hard.

"Make your own bloody tea," John replies.

He sits in the armchair, pours himself a double, knocks it down, and waits. Sherlock decides the tea can wait until John is in the mood to make it for him, and sits on the sofa. _Ping._ John doesn't move, because the only person who he might like to see a text from is dead, and is sitting in front of him.

John pours another and drinks it a little slower. He is staring at the floor, at Sherlock's feet. This seems safe enough. Just a little at a time. Those shoes are poorer quality than anything he's seen Sherlock wear; in fact they're coming apart at the sole and are covered in mud. John is sure the feet must be cold and wet and in the back of his mind he thinks, Sherlock would never have cold wet feet. His eyes slowly climb up the legs – such ill-fitting trousers, and worn at the knees even? – to the long pale fingers tapping nervously on his thighs. Stained fingernails; he's smoking again. Conscious of the attention, the fingers leap up away and come back together, clasped, below the chin, and then there's the mouth, soft lips pulled tight, worrying the bottom lip. John pauses there. He's not ready to hear the voice again, but this is a dead end, he can't go forward without information.

"Start talking," John says.

Sherlock starts. Moriarty had snipers trained on John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, he explains. Life was the final problem and Moriarty was bent on Sherlock's suicide.

John is trying to listen, but half his brain is still buzzing with anger and confusion and adrenaline, while the other half is drinking in the details of the dead man's face. And now that he's really looking, he sees the eyes are flashing blue with intensity, but they're also slightly bloodshot. He notices the drops of sweat on the forehead and upper lip, and attributes it to the fight. But then he thinks, it should not have been that easy to pin Sherlock down. He notices too that Sherlock's speech is off, limping just slightly. John leans forward and reaches his hand inside the collar of Sherlock's coat, beneath his curls at the back of his neck, and finds the skin there so hot he draws his hand back abruptly.

"You have a fever," he says accusingly, the anger in his voice unabated.

"Mm," Sherlock acknowledges, annoyed to be pulled away from his story, which is really quite impressive, he thinks. "Yes, between 39.2 and 39.5 degrees. Anyway, obviously Moriarty was – "

"Shut up."

Sherlock pauses, reminds himself, John is upset. He anticipated this, and indeed, John is quite upset, and also stronger and faster than Sherlock remembered and he might decide to attack him again. The most efficient strategy will be to allow John to throw his tantrum. That way Sherlock can gather more data about John's irrational response, and then stop it. Humor John.

"Why do you have a fever?"

Sherlock sighs. Humoring John is already tiresome. "Honestly, John, you provoke serious misgivings about the British medical education. The hypothalamus detects pyrogens in the bloodstream and signals the body to produce –"

"Sherlock, why do _you_ have a fever?"

"The infection, obviously," he replies, gesturing vaguely at his torso. He would really like to get back to explaining his ingenious plan.

John grits his teeth. "Infection?"

Sherlock sighs again and begins to take off his overcoat. His life of late has required many compromises, and he hates this coat, a hideous mass-produced thing made of cheap, scratchy material, barely lined and already falling apart. The button on the left cuff fell off four and a half days after he bought it, and the bottom hem began to come undone a week later. It's the second one he's gone through since he left his old coat behind on another man's body.

Sherlock pulls the bottom of his shirt up, revealing his right side. John lets out a groan, half sympathy and half irritation. The wound, stretching from his ribs to just below his armpit, is red and festering, purple here and there, and smells terrible. It's not the worst John has ever seen but it's bad. Clearly Sherlock stitched it up himself. John imagines trying to stitch up his armpit with his non-dominant hand while in pain and shock and has to admit it's impressive under the circumstances, but the end result is not. "Idiot," he hisses and gets up to get his kit.

"Chasing a man in Tottenham," Sherlock explains, leaning back in the sofa and closing his eyes. "I thought I'd take a shortcut. Rooftops. Leapt across to another building and I…" Sherlock clears this throat, follows it with a little grunt. "I misjudged."

Coming back with his kit, John raises an eyebrow. He knows that before, he would have had to take a dig at Sherlock for this. He wouldn't have been able to resist. He opens his mouth to do it, but realizes he has nothing to say. Sherlock being hurt is not funny. Sherlock being alive is not funny.

Sherlock has opened his eyes and is watching John intently, waiting. Surely John will not let this go, it's too easy. But John just kneels on the floor beside him, tells him to lie down on the sofa, and begins cleaning his wound.

John doesn't ask, but Sherlock continues anyway. "Hit a fence on the way down, metal one, rather jagged." He looks down at John, whose eyes are narrowed in concentration and anger, and sees him grind his teeth slightly. "No, John, I will not go to hospital. I am still dead and need to remain that way for the time being. The hospital is far more dangerous than the wound or the infection."

John is silent. He has so many questions but right now, he is focused on the wound, the infection, the fever, the things he understands.

"When's the last time you ate, Sherlock?"

"Eating's boring."

"Yeah. When?"

"Had a little something on Tuesday."

John grunts. "Last time you slept?"

"Sleep's boring. Been busy."

"I can see that. When."

It's not a question, it's an order, and Sherlock takes exception to that. Humoring John is becoming extremely dull. Besides, why isn't John acting even a little bit glad to see him? Of course this is a shock, but he is acting stupider than usual, and he is about to tell him that, but then considers that it is good to have someone else tending to his wound. It hurts like hell, but he knows John is being as gentle as he can be, and he appreciates that. "Yesterday," he lies.

"You're lying."

Sherlock snorts. "You don't know that."

"Yeah, actually, I do." Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but a sudden pain shoots through his side and he draws his breath in sharply. John glances up at his face, then turns his attention back to the wound. He notes how Sherlock's ribs are sticking out, almost grotesquely. Has he been eating at all? His hand brushes accidentally across a smaller scar on Sherlock's chest. Knife fight, smugglers, Tilbury. John had been busy freeing their human cargo, while Sherlock engaged two, then three of them, and would've got a lot worse than this scratch if John hadn't returned just in time with his Browning. He remembers fixing up that wound too, just like this on the sofa on Baker Street. He mentally inventories all the scars he knows on Sherlock's torso, arms, legs – the ones he knows intimately, having cleaned and stitched and monitored them himself, and the ones that predate him, that he's never touched. He remembers standing in Bart's, afterwards, trying to explain to Molly Hooper that he had to see the body. Not that he didn't believe. He'd felt Sherlock's wrist himself, he didn't need proof. What he needed was to see the body, take stock of the damage in a way he could understand. It had to have broken several bones in the impact. John needed to know how many and which ones. He needed to know where the blood came from, the blood on the sidewalk, where exactly the skull had burst open. He needed to know how the body had landed, what hit first. (Sherlock would have known just from glimpsing how it lay on the sidewalk.) He needed to see the scars he knew best, the evidence of the times he had helped this body instead of standing by watching it fall. But Molly had stood firm. He'd never imagined she had it in her. He begged, pleaded, ended up on his knees, and then he drew himself up and got loud, pushed his chest against her and his mouth an inch from her face and yelled like a sergeant, and she didn't even flinch. He hated her. John has never hit a woman (drunken brawls with Harry don't count) but it scares him how badly he'd wanted to throw her up against the wall, crush his forearm against her windpipe, and watch fear take over her face. But he dug his fingernails into his own palms and didn't touch her, and it wasn't fear on her face, it was sadness or more likely pity and finally John gave up. And never saw the body. He pauses, staring at the body in front of him. The festering wound. The knife scar. The pale skin. The blue veins. He counts out the rise and fall of Sherlock's breath.

"It was a cadaver," Sherlock says quietly. "Molly found –"

John can't hear this yet. He pops a thermometer into Sherlock's mouth and silently orders him to keep it in, glaring at him like a superior officer to a new recruit. Sherlock smiles. He's fond of that look, thinks of it as John's army face, and he has missed it terribly. John doesn't smile back. Sherlock is about to spit the thermometer out, to ratchet that glare up to the next level, when he remembers that he is humoring John. Besides, he is suddenly exhausted. He closes his eyes. Why is he so tired? He shouldn't be so tired, he napped on Wednesday. He remembers tea and thinks yes, a cup of tea would help him reorient himself, and yes he can make his own tea and he can make a cup for John too, John would like that, he'd be surprised but pleased, he takes it with milk but no sugar, and Sherlock thinks that the two of them drinking tea together might make John nostalgic, might trigger some chemical reaction so that he can calm down and be just a little bit happy to have Sherlock back. Yes, tea will help. Sherlock starts to get up. Instantly a hand appears out of nowhere, solid against his chest and pushing him right back into the sofa. Everything floats for a moment. A phone rings and rings and he wonders why John won't answer it, that's not like him. He vaguely notices the thermometer leaving his mouth and hears John grunt in annoyance.

"I was right then?," Sherlock mumbles.

"39.4," John replies. Sherlock smirks.

John's voice, gruff and angry – still angry? – is far away: "Sleep."Humor John, Sherlock reminds himself. And he does.

* * *

The fever climbs quickly.

John argues with himself at least once an hour. Hospital? Sherlock's in danger either way. John understands the danger posed by a fever climbing above 40 degrees. He does not understand the danger posed by going to the hospital. He has to believe it is real, though, because Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead, so all bets are off. And one thing he does know is that if he brings Sherlock to the hospital, they'll take him out of his sight. So that's the factor that tips the scales again and again.

He calls in sick to the surgery and cares for Sherlock himself. He forces Sherlock to drink fluids and more fluids, no tea, and whenever he feels up to it, to take lukewarm showers. He puts Sherlock in his bed and sits beside him with endless cool washcloths as he fades in and out of sleep. He watches Sherlock's nightmares and wonders if this is new, or if these terrors were always there. At one point, Sherlock is sleeping relatively calmly when he suddenly opens his eyes and stares, not at John but at the space that John occupies. John's heart stops; he's seen that before, broken and bloody on a sidewalk in Smithfield. He bites down the urge to scream and reaches out to touch Sherlock's face, now a riot of colors left behind by John's fist. As soon as his fingers graze Sherlock's cheek, his eyes refocus onto John and close again. His chest rises and falls in sleep. John can breathe.

One night, John is asleep on the sofa when suddenly he hears someone undoing the deadbolt. He leaps upright to see Sherlock, fully dressed and about to head out the door. "Come on John," he says impatiently, "get your coat, the game is on!"

"No no no," John slides his body between Sherlock and the door. "The game is not on, you are going back to bed."

Sherlock's eyes are glassy and manic, his face and hair and shirt drenched with sweat. He looks at John incredulously. "Bed? Jesus, John, what goes on in your simple mind? Moriarty's given me this perfect puzzle and you think I should go to bed?" He shoves John aside and reaches for the door.

He's still very weak and John easily grips both his arms to his sides. "Sherlock," he says as calmly as he can, "you are ill. You are delirious. Moriarty is dead." Sherlock snorts. John flicks on the light. "Look around you. We are not on Baker Street. This is my flat. Moriarty shot himself and you jumped off Barts and faked your death and left me here alone" – damnit, he didn't want that to come out that way, nevermind, just pretend it didn't – "and now you have a very high fever and you are delirious."

Sherlock takes a moment. "I'm delirious," he repeats, watching John carefully. John nods. "Then you're a hallucination too," he says.

"No," John says softly, "I'm real."

"Hm." Sherlock folds his arms and taps the fingers of his left hand against his lips. "That's not impossible, but it's extremely unlikely. There is no rational reason for me to be here with you now. And I do think of you often. No, the most probable explanation is that you are another figment of my fevered mind."

John has to agree that makes sense.

"I'd hope for a less predictable hallucination, but you're pleasant enough," Sherlock adds, swatting his hand towards John in a feeble attempt at an amiable pat on the shoulder and missing by a wide margin. "It's very good to see you." He grins broadly. John can't help it, he grins back.

"Alright, Sherlock. Back to bed with you."

Later that night, Sherlock tries to leave again, and John, usually such a light sleeper but tonight so exhausted, doesn't hear him slip out into the hallway. Sherlock turns back before he reaches the lift, though, insisting John must come with him immediately, he's desperate, they are not safe, they must go into hiding, and this time it takes much longer to talk him down.

After that, John sleeps on the floor of the bedroom, blocking the door with his body.

* * *

On the fourth night, John wakes up and knows that Sherlock will be alright. He stands up slowly, stretches, cracks his spine, walks over to the bed and watches Sherlock sleep. Peaceful. Though he doesn't need to, he puts his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and confirms that the fever has broken. He sighs, grabs his blanket and pillow off the floor, and heads to the living room to sleep on the sofa.

* * *

John wakes up to see Sherlock emerging from the bedroom in the blue early morning light. His chest fills with gratitude – Sherlock, alive, and walking, and going to be ok – but then he remembers Sherlock forcing him to stand below and watch his body fall, to see his bloodied face and still grey eyes night after night after night.

Sherlock watches, fascinated, as the emotions roll across John's face until finally a neutral non-expression lands there and settles in.

"How're you feeling?" John asks.

"Hungry," Sherlock responds, clearly astounded by that fact. "Ravenous." He starts to walk towards the kitchen but stumbles and has to catch himself against the wall.

"And a bit wobbly?" John's words are friendly, but his voice is hollow.

Sherlock grimaces. "A bit."

"Well. Hungry is a good sign. Very good. I'll just get up and fix you something, you sit here."

Sherlock sits. He waits quietly, noticing how it feels to be back in his body, his side finally healing and not tearing into him each time he breathes, his limbs more or less obeying his commands, his brain, his beautiful precious brain, free and beginning to hum back to life. And his stomach, growling.

"Afraid I don't have much," John calls from the kitchen. He knows he should go out for groceries. And possibly to go to work. And Sherlock will be needing more antibiotics. But obviously he couldn't leave the flat while Sherlock was in danger. He can now, most likely, but the question at the moment is breakfast. "You shouldn't try anything difficult to digest anyway. Let's take it slow. Toast for now, I'll fix some soup later."

Sherlock grunts in response as he scans the flat, devouring and cataloging every piece of data he can find about John, this John without him. This John is obsessively neat, military discipline, a place for everything and everything in its place, each item at 90 or 45 degree angles. This John spends very little time at home, there's nothing on the walls, he treats it like a hotel room, but when he is here, watches a great deal of telly – the proximity of the telly to the sofa, the placement of the remote control – no, doesn't actually watch it, just keeps it on, see how the power button is worn but the channel and volume keys are not, and it's a relatively new telly, it's not the one from Baker Street, in fact nothing here is from Baker Street, nothing at all, John must have left all his things behind, was it too painful to go back or did Mrs. Hudson offer to take care of everything? Must ask him about my coat, Sherlock thinks. And obviously he will have kept the violin. When did this John start drinking so much whiskey? The rings on the table tell that story, as well as the easy, resigned way John reached for the whiskey bottle last night – no, not last night, how long ago was that? Damnit, Sherlock winces and clenches his jaw, losing time means losing information and losing control…

"You ok?"

John is standing over him with a plate of toast and a glass of water. Sherlock grimaces. "You're feeding me bread and water, John. Am I your prisoner?"

John shrugs. "You're welcome to make yourself a gourmet brunch if you'd like. Are you in pain? You made a face."

Sherlock takes the plate and glass. "Fine. How long have I been here?"

"Four nights." Sherlock tries to hide the horror on his face, but it's too late. John sighs, "Sherlock, without medical care you could've died. Again. I intend to kill you with my bare hands as soon as you've fully recovered, but I'm bloody glad you decided to come here."

Sherlock falls quiet and stares at the toast in his hand, calculating in the back of his mind the precise temperature required to achieve just this shade of brown. "I shouldn't have. Obviously my judgment was already impaired by my fever when I decided to come here. Imbecile! What was I thinking? I've put you in danger, John, four nights is enough time for any child to find me, the only question now is why haven't they?"

"Who? What are you going on about, Sherlock?"

"Leaving," Sherlock replies, shoving the toast in his mouth and preparing to stand up.

"The hell you are." John is standing over him with his army face again. "You are seriously ill, your wound is not healed, you can barely walk, and you still haven't told me what the hell is going on."

"True. My explanation was interrupted and you weren't paying attention anyway." Sherlock hesitates. He would hate to leave that story unfinished. "Do pay attention this time, John. And then I really must leave. This is dangerous for you."

John shrugs, settles into his armchair, crosses his arms, and says again, "Start talking."

* * *

John has to admit it's incredible. As Sherlock explains all the intricate machinations required to fake his death, John's eyes widen and he has to stop himself from breathing "Oh that's brilliant." Because it's not. It's really not. It is the most horrible thing that ever happened to him, and that's saying something. But he doesn't have to say it, Sherlock reads it across his face and feels it warm his blood and fill his lungs, he has missed this so much, has had no one to watch him with amazement, no one to tell him how fantastic he is, and it shouldn't matter in the slightest because he knows he's a genius, he doesn't need anyone to tell him that, but when he sees it on John's face, everything hums and his voice gets just a little faster, hits its rhythm, rises and falls, and he loves this, he loves himself like this, all he needs is an audience, the only audience he needs is John.

"Bastard."

"What?"

John's face does not say "brilliant" anymore. "You're a sodding bastard."

"I saved your life." Somehow it sounds petty.

"Saved it for what?" John takes the dishes to the kitchen and begins washing up.

John is still angry, Sherlock reflects. He quickly compiles a list of all the reasons John might be angry – this is much easier now that he's not thinking through a fever – and begins ticking off all the impossible reasons, sorting out the improbable ones, and is left with a short list of promising theories. Certainly Sherlock's death would have been painful for John. He'd understood that ahead of time, and wished it didn't have to be, but there was no other way. Ah. Perhaps John doesn't understand that. Like most people, he does need things spelled out to an agonizingly simple degree.

"John," Sherlock calls into the kitchen, "there was no other way. I narrowed it down to 17 ideas that had at least a 5% chance of success but in the end there was only one that could possibly be called viable."

"Sod off, Sherlock."

Hm. Eliminate that from the list then. Could he be jealous? John is a man who loves adventure, who was starving for it when they met, but here Sherlock has abandoned him to an excrutiatingly boring life in an ugly flat and a monotonous job at the surgery. God, John's life is dull. Yes, this could be it.

"John," Sherlock calls, "I wished I could have taken you with me. I thought about that everyday." The noises in the kitchen pause for a moment. "But I had no choice." A dish clangs into the sink. "It's not as if I was gallivanting about on holiday, I was tracking assassins…" No, no, reverse course, that's not good. "… and sleeping under bridges, and just sitting and waiting for days on end at times… really, sometimes my life was as dull as yours."

A loud snort from the kitchen prompts Sherlock to cross this theory off his list.

Sherlock thinks harder. John in the cemetery. That was… extremely upsetting. Sherlock reviews that memory, dissects it, puts it back together, shakes it, turns it upside down, rolls it around between his palms, smells and tastes it, searching for the kernel of information that he's sure is contained there. Thinking out loud with John around is very often helpful, he recalls, and he's missed it so much. It's astonishing sometimes, the little flashes of light that the man can reflect back without even realizing. Sherlock thinks it's worth a try.

He shakily stands up, walks over to the kitchen, and leans against a wall where he can get a good view of John's profile as he washes dishes.

"Before I left," he says, "I saw you and Mrs. Hudson at the cemetery." John freezes. Sherlock clears his throat and considers his options. He could play this sentimental, summon up some tears and sob his way through the telling, or just let one or two tears slide silently across his cheekbones. He could play it manly, which John would probably appreciate, overly awkward with a punch on the arm at the end. He could play it whispery, as if in awe of the raw power of John's emotion. Or he could play it cruel, mock John's grief and see how far that would push him, learn how he would react. He likes that one and scolds himself silently, he knows that is not good. He's really not sure which one is good though. He decides to try and do this as Sherlock, although he's not at all sure that's a wise strategy.

Sherlock tells John what he said at his grave, verbatim, as if narrating the scene. He tells him when his voice cracked, when the tears came, when he touched the headstone, how he set is jaws and shoulder when he turned on his heel and left. Sherlock's voice is as fast as normal, straightforward and matter of fact because he is, actually, reporting matters of fact. But it's also oddly gentle. John stares straight ahead and listens.

After Sherlock finishes the story, John continues to listen and hears only the rustle of fabric, Sherlock fidgeting. "Well?" John says, finally. "And what did you deduce from this?"

Sherlock sighs in irritation. John does need everything spelled out for him, apparently. "That you didn't go to my funeral, though I already knew you wouldn't. That you'd been staying with your sister, that you hadn't been eating but Mrs. Hudson forced you to have tea with her just before you came to the cemetery, but not at Baker Street, she came to your sister's flat and brought sandwiches, I'm not sure what kind. That you'd been having nightmares about Afghanistan, that you hadn't been to work since my death. That you adore and revere me, though I already knew that, and that losing me caused you great pain. John. If I could have spared you from both pain and death, I would have, believe me, but it could be only one." Sherlock almost launches into a monologue in defense of his actions because really, he thinks he's been both noble and clever and has not received nearly enough recognition for that. But then he remembers John hasn't reacted well to that approach and wonders again, what will John react well to? What does he want? Sherlock turns the full force of his gaze on John, as if he can, just by looking, slice away layers of convention and artifice and society until there's nothing left but the pure essence of John. But it doesn't work. What Sherlock had hoped would be a dramatic pause has now stretched into an awkward silence. He deeply regrets his choice of strategy on this one, because if he'd chosen to play a part, he would've known where it was going.

Finally John seems to take pity on him, sighs, and turns to face him. "Are you trying to apologize, Sherlock?," he asks in a very tired tone.

Sherlock curses at himself silently, because of course that is exactly what he should have been trying to do. He never thinks of apologies, such irrational and arbitrary conventions. If a thing has already happened, and the outcome was undesirable, what good does it do to drag yourself back through it? Why wouldn't all parties want to just move on? Pointless. He doesn't understand why apologizing for his actions should make John happy. After all, he doesn't regret it in the slightest. He would do nothing differently. He saved three lives and sacrificed none (Moriarty doesn't count; not Sherlock's fault). The math is unflinchingly on his side. And yet, he does not like the fact that John is angry with him and/or still in pain. Seeing him at the cemetery that day was nearly intolerable, and watching his face right now is not pleasant either. He has to admit, he was tempted at the cemetery, for just a split second, to walk out of the trees and say hello. Make his pain go away, just like that. Now he wants make it go away again, but apparently showing up and saying hello is inadequate. And John has told him exactly what he wants, so this is the most probable solution. Therefore, no matter how preposterous it might be, this is the course of action to pursue.

"John. I am so. Sorry."

John's eyes widen in surprise. He didn't expect to actually hear an apology, did he? Sherlock feels smug. Oh, he'll show him he can apologize. His voice drops a register and his eyes wash a watercolor blue.

"I caused you pain, and perhaps you think I don't take it seriously. But your well-being is of utmost importance to me, John. To cause you so much pain, that's… maybe that's unforgiveable. To do this to a friend. My _only_ friend. It hurt me… deeply… to see you like that at the cemetery, and I've thought about it constantly since then. I never wanted to hurt you. Please believe me. And if you can, please forgive me."

John stares him down. "Laying on a little thick, aren't we?" he asks.

Sherlock is indignant. "I am giving you a very sincere apology. I'm sorry if it's not good enough for you!"

John shakes his head, turns away, puts his hand over his face. "Do you actually feel any of that?" he asks. Sherlock has no idea how to answer this question, so he says nothing. Then, "I'm sorry." He's not. But he will say it if it will make John's anger and/or pain go away.

John turns back around, his face worn and tired, and says, "Yeah, ok, that's enough apologizing for today. As your doctor, I am sending you back to bed." He pushes him toward the bedroom and the firmness of his hand on Sherlock's back is not exactly forgiveness but Sherlock hopes it's close enough.

He doesn't object to going to bed because truthfully, he's exhausted. Already. Again. He inwardly admits John's right, he can't go back out there just yet and expect to survive. But he can't stay in here much longer and expect John to survive. He'll take a powernap and then figure out a plan and execute it. He's asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

* * *

It's late afternoon when John hears a knock at his door. No one has ever knocked at his door. Since his best friend is dead and asleep in the flat, he assumes there are only two other possibilities: an assassin or Mycroft's people. _Oh._ He suddenly remembers the insistent text messages and phone calls the night Sherlock showed up. Once he switched into doctor mode he stopped hearing them entirely, picking up his mobile only to call in sick to work, and at some point they just stopped. The door slowly swings open and John just stands there. If it's an assassin, there's nothing he can do about it. If it's Mycroft, there's also nothing he can do about it.

An umbrella, a pin striped leg, and then all of Mycroft towering in John's flat. John hasn't seen him since the day Sherlock… since that day, and John suddenly realizes, with a violent surge, just how much he hasn't missed him.

"Good evening John," Mycroft says with a genteel nod.

"Mycroft."

"Where is he?"

John doesn't know whether Mycroft is supposed to know Sherlock is alive and here, but he clearly does know, and John's not going to bother to pretend otherwise. "Bedroom."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

John rolls his eyes. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's eyes widen in an expression of innocence. "Seeking out my lost little brother, of course. He was seen entering this building five days ago. I have been trying to reach you since then, but you have ignored my attempts" Mycroft sniffs delicately as a commentary on John's manners. "I've had a car waiting for one or the other of you to step outside, but you have not done so. I didn't want to come here and bring undue attention on your home, but I was left with little choice. When neither of you emerged for five days, I concluded I'd find you in an amorous embrace or else something was very wrong."

John coughs out a laugh. "Well, if the former was true, then the latter would be true as well. But in this case, it's only the latter. He's been very ill, the fever's broken, he'll be ok, but he needs his sleep."

Mycroft nods with a smile that seems to be acting like it thinks a smile is supposed to act. "You've nursed him back from the brink of death. I am forever in your debt."

"Well, technically he's still dead. I'm not a miracle worker, you know."

"Indeed." Mycroft smirks.

"So. Been keeping me under surveillance, have you?"

Mycroft eyebrow floats up again. "Of course. Why wouldn't I? This is the first place he'd go. If," he adds in a mocking tone, "he was being incredibly _obvious_." Mycroft turns around to face Sherlock, who has appeared in the bedroom doorway behind him. "Good evening, Sherlock." John steps to the side so that he can see Mycroft's face and catches it, an instant of softness, gone as quickly as it appeared.

"It is obvious. I shouldn't be here," Sherlock replies, his tone casual but his eyes, locked with Mycroft's, deadly. "Neither should you."

"Neither should I?" Mycroft pretends to be taken aback. "But I'm not the one scurrying around in darkness. Now that you've emerged into the light, do I take it that you're quite done with your little spectacle?"

"My 'spectacle' saved three lives."

"Oh. Three?" Mycroft's voice carries just the slightest tinge of amusement and John has to clench his fists to restrain himself from lunging at him. Across Mycroft's shoulder, Sherlock throws him a knowing look and John takes a step back.

"Shall we sit?," Mycroft asks, gesturing towards the sofa.

"Oh yeah, please come in, do make yourself at home," John mumbles under his breath. He crosses his arms and leans back against the wall.

Mycroft sits in the armchair while Sherlock folds himself onto the sofa and asks, "What do you want?"

"To see you alive and well, dear brother." His voice drips with sarcasm, and yet there it is again, a look in his eyes that someone might have while taking a deep breath of joy and relief, but Mycroft is doing nothing of the sort, his mouth is set in a line like an iron bar and he is breathing as little as possible. He flutters his fingers at Sherlock, indicating the fading bruises on his face.

"John was surprised to see me," Sherlock grumbles. "I was sick," he adds hurriedly.

"Indeed. I was a bit surprised myself, I might have thought you'd contact me upon returning to London."

"Why bother? It's not as if I can avoid you."

"No. So tell me, how have you been spending your time?" He sounds like he's talking to a 20 year old who dropped out of uni to backpack across China.

Sherlock stretches languidly and contemplates the ceiling. "Killing people, mostly. Criminal masterminds, assassins, the sort of people a proper government might be interested in controlling. As opposed to giving them exactly what they want and releasing them back on the streets." He swivels his head and meets Mycroft's stare.

After a moment, Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs. "I underestimated Moriarty. It was… a miscalculation of very grave proportions. You must know that I –"

Sherlock snorts. "You're sorry, are you? Don't debase yourself any further. Your mistake, as you call it, was staggering, absolutely breathtaking in its stupidity. What could you possibly say? What will your apology accomplish? What," Sherlock's voice drops an octave and slows, "do you want?"

Mycroft taps his umbrella handle. If he is experiencing an emotion, it doesn't show. "I helped you with your magic trick. I will help you again. But I cannot if you do not communicate with me. This –" he waves in the direction of Sherlock's wound "– could easily have been avoided. Accept my help."

"Forgive me, Mycroft, but I do not trust your help as much as I once did. I'll get by without it."

"You will accept it eventually though. When you find it convenient."

Enunciating very clearly, Sherlock replies, "It is not convenient."

Mycroft rises and bows slightly. He pauses at the door, taking in the picture of Sherlock again before he leaves. John watches carefully, wondering if Mycroft also has a hard drive and if he's taking a moment to save the image. John has fantasized, countless times since Sherlock's death, about slowly carving the smirk off Mycroft's face, cutting down his height by shooting his kneecaps and then standing on them, pulling his fingernails out one by one and sliding them behind his eyelids, devising new forms of torture even Mycroft himself hasn't imagined. But now, watching the man stare at his dead brother, he realizes that Mycroft has already been torturing himself quietly and effectively, as he does all things.

"John." Mycroft says without looking at him, by way of goodbye.

"Oi, Mycroft!" John replies, grabbing a notepad and pencil off the table. "Could you send someone round with some groceries? I haven't got much left and Sherlock's not eaten for days." He doesn't need to hurt Mycroft anymore, but he's not going to just let him walk away either. He begins scribbling on the notepad. Soup… Bread…

Mycroft stretches to his full height and raises his eyebrows, calling to mind a cobra before it strikes. His voice almost suggests amusement but his eyes do not. "I am not," he says, "an errand boy. I will not ask why you can't do your own shopping."

"He's afraid I'll leave," Sherlock calls from the sofa, again addressing the ceiling. "He thinks if he steps out for a moment, I'll be gone when he returns. It's not unreasonable."

John shrugs, writes Oranges… Biscuits… what's that brand Sherlock loves, in the blue box?

"Is my help already convenient, Sherlock?" Mycroft sneers.

Sherlock closes his eyes and gestures towards John, as if to say, this is between you and him.

John finishes the list. Sugar… Milk. "Just a few things," he says, folding the list into a small rectangle and tucking it into Mycroft's breast pocket, in front of a red silk handerchief. "Cheers."

Mycroft narrows his eyes and stares down at him as if the line of his nose was the scope of a sniper's rifle. But John's never been intimidated by that look before, and he's not going to start now, with a dead man on his sofa.

"Will you bring him a gun, while you're at it?" Sherlock asks casually.

"_What?_"

"John seems to have misplaced his gun. It won't do."

"_You_ are my responsibility, not John. I fail to see," Mycroft hisses, turning toward the door, "how his gun is my problem."

"Oh you do, do you?" Sherlock sits up and leans toward Mycroft, his eyes flashing. "You fail to see how your profoundly stupid actions caused mortal danger that any moron could have predicted? The least you can do is give him a fighting chance to defend himself. Or perhaps you're worried he'll turn his anger to you; he's a better shot than you ever were."

Mycroft sniffs sharply and leaves.

As the door clicks behind him, Sherlock leans back and asks, "What happened to your gun, John?"

"Sold it," John replies. "Alright, you may as well tell me about all this danger now."

So Sherlock tells him about Moriarty's web, and how, without Moriarty it is weaker, yes, but it survived. Others have tried to emerge and Sherlock has been able to slap them down but someone is still tugging the lines of the web, he's heard the name Moran, could be something, could go nowhere, too soon to tell. He's eliminated all three snipers but believes there may still a conditional order for the killing of John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and if so there must be a recall order. No, he doesn't have a lead at the moment. He did, but it turned out to be a dead end. Then there was that utter waste of time in Tottenham. Anyway, they know he's alive now; he's killed more than enough of them to attract their attention. They must have seen him come to John's flat. Mycroft did. What was he thinking, coming here? That sodding fever. He never would have come otherwise. And that's why he must leave, as soon as possible.

A knock at the door. John jumps in surprise. Sherlock meets his eyes and gestures toward his overcoat, hanging next to the door. John slowly reaches into the pocket, feels a gun – oh, it's been a long time since he held a gun in his hand, he should be disturbed by how comfortable it feels – and silently positions his shoulder against the door. He opens it quickly, gun raised, but no one's there. There's a shopping bag in the hall.

John brings it into the kitchenette and starts putting things away. Everything he asked for, plus an unusually heavy box of cereal. He reaches inside and pulls out a Browning, exactly like his old one. He turns it over and over in his hand, running his fingers down the metal, marveling at the similarities. Could it… no. There's a serial number on this one; his was filed off, beautifully. He remembers the night Sherlock took that job upon himself in the kitchen on Baker Street; the number was already filed off when John bought the Browning, but very poorly, and Sherlock took great offense at such shoddy worksmanship, so it had to be fixed, right in the middle of dinner, tiny metal filings ending up in the mussaman curry. He slides his finger around the trigger, feels the weight of it in his hand; yes, this feels like home.

"What happened to your gun, John?" asks Sherlock. He's leaning forward on the sofa, watching John hungrily.

John can tell from his voice that Sherlock doesn't know yet, and he's not really asking, he's savoring the puzzle in the moment before he starts solving it. Which he will do in seconds, so may as well tell him. "Threw it into the Thames so I wouldn't kill myself."

Sherlock blinks. John furrows his brow. Could Sherlock actually be surprised by this?

"Kill yourself? Why in hell… _you idiot!_ After everything I did to save your life, you would've just blown it away?" Sherlock leaps off the sofa and begins pacing about the living room.

"You were dead at the time," John breaks in flatly.

"I know that!" Sherlock yells. "I know, I put enough bloody effort into it, didn't I?

"Yeah, with your genius scheme, isn't that what this is all about?" John interrupts, his blood beginning to boil. "Your beautiful, perfect plan, your last dance with Moriarty, it's all about you, you never thought how I would –"

"Never thought? Of course I thought. I just never…" Sherlock stops in his tracks and groans as he covers his eyes with a hand. "Obvious." He shakes his head. "So obvious. A veteran, recently returned from the war, injured in combat, in therapy, psychosomatic limp. Almost certainly post-traumatic stress disorder, the vivid recurring nightmares are consistent with that diagnosis." John crosses his arms uncomfortably, imagining Sherlock back at Baker Street, listening to his nightmares, were they really loud enough to hear in the living room? Or could Sherlock have been standing at his door? Or over his bed? John cringes. Meanwhile, Sherlock is hitting his stride and his voice picks up speed. "Suicidal ideation is a likely symptom. Actual suicide attempts?" Sherlock pauses for a moment, pivots to face John, and squints. "No. Not yet. But close. He thinks about it constantly. Why else would a depressed, unemployed doctor own a gun? And it would have to be a gun. The soldier was always so sure he'd die in the heat of battle, but now there will be no more battles. He has to still believe he'll die by a bullet. Now, he's just marking time. And then… he meets someone who gives him an excuse to kill a cabbie in cold blood" – John opens his mouth to object to this characterization, then decides to let it go – "And he's back in battle again. Danger! Adrenaline! And the soldier is sure, again, that he'll die on the battlefield. At my side." Sherlock stops pacing and turns again to John, greenblue eyes locked onto him.

"But then, suddenly, there are no more battles." He steeples his fingers, taps them three times against his lips, and clasps them behind his back. "I misjudged," he announces. "The data was all there, but the premise was faulty."

"And what would that be?"

Sherlock clears his throat. "That you were the sort of man who… just goes on. The way normal people seem to do."

"Ah." John's eyes fall to the floor. "Very faulty, yes." Shame burns in his stomach, his chest, his throat. "I suppose you can't imagine being so weak, wanting to just... leave your life completely. Your actual life, I mean."

"I don't have to imagine wanting it." His voice is suddenly quiet. "I just never imagined you would."

John looks up and meets Sherlock's eyes, green disappearing into blue disappearing into grey. "What did you think I would do, Sherlock?"

"Live. And feel sad and miss me of course, and keep living. I didn't think about it much, John, it was irrelevant." Sherlock punctuates the word with a wave of his hand and notices John's nostrils flare and eyes narrow. He shoves the offending hand into his pocket. "You're making me repeat myself, you know this. I could kill myself or kill you. Yes, I suppose I would've killed myself if I'd had to – oh don't look at me like that. I don't know, I didn't have to decide, so there was no reason to dwell on that. And no reason to dwell on how you would respond, because there was no other option. I knew I would find a way out, and I did. I found... One. Way. Out."

"Hm." John purses his lips and rocks on the balls of his feet. "You did. You did. You always find a way out, don't you? But you left me with no way out. You can think your way out of everything, I suppose, but us mortals…" John shuts his eyes, wonders why he should care whether Sherlock understands.

Sherlock wants to understand. He remembers a time when he lost something precious. His best friend was taken from him. The friend that was always there, always welcoming, the only one that could quiet his mind when it spun out of control. He wouldn't let them do it, so he broke out of three rehab centres until finally, he was shut up in a room with only Mycroft watching over him, standing in front of the door, silent and immovable. Sherlock remembers his howling desperation and the feeling that he would do anything, _anything_ to get out of that room. "I have had an experience like that," he says. "No way out. Locked room. Nothing to be done."

John is a little surprised. "Really?"

"Yes. Really. But it was a chemical reaction." He raises both hands in front of him. "Addiction," left hand. "Withdrawal," the right.

John sighs. The analogy will have to do; it's about as close as Sherlock is likely to get. "Yes. Well. Emotions are physiological too, as you know. And people can be… habit-forming."

Sherlock looks at him oddly. "That's true," he says with a little tinge of surprise. "Are you saying you went into withdrawal?"

No, John thinks, you emotionally stunted twat, that's not what I am saying at all, but then he thinks, maybe it is a little bit. "Yeah, I missed you, Sherlock. Yes, I've missed the battle and the adrenaline and all of that, but I also missed you."

"Physiologically?" Sherlock looks genuinely curious.

John clears his throat awkwardly. "Yes, I suppose… yes. An emptiness. Physiologically. And when I closed my eyes or let my mind go quiet, I saw your body falling and then the blood on your face, the blood on the sidewalk, and that's what the future held for me, forever. No way out."

"I see," Sherlock says, and hopes it's true. He steps closer, greyblue eyes scanning John's face. "Two more questions. How far did you go?"

John looks down at the gun on the counter. His jaw clenches involuntarily and he knows that with that he's given himself away. He imagines Sherlock scanning through a slideshow, stopping on an image of John sitting on the floor in a dark room, the Browning in his mouth, his thumb clicking the safety off, his finger just beginning to squeeze the trigger.

"Far," John replies, and looks up to see Sherlock staring at him with a strange expression he doesn't quite recognize, something akin to fear, but quieter, his eyes wide, very pale and very still. "Second question?"

"Second question," Sherlock says softly. "It would seem you had… no apparent reason to live." John chuckles humorlessly and Sherlock feels certain he's misstepped, though he's not sure how. "What stopped you?"

John turns the gun over in his hands again, drums his fingers against the barrel, licks his lips nervously. "It sounds mad, but… you did. I thought… of how disappointed you'd be in me."

"But I was dead." Sherlock is confused and slightly irritated. He wants very badly to understand this, but he suspects it's pointless. He'd hoped for a better answer, thought John would be above such inane superstition.

"Yeah, you were. Quite dead." The laugh starts in the base of John's throat and creeps up to his mouth before he knows what it is. By the time he recognizes it, it's too late, and he can't stop it from escaping in spurts. "Your… dead opinion…" he snickers, "of my dead… self… was very important to… me." He can't explain why this is funny, but it is clearly absurd and he can't stop. He looks up and sees Sherlock giggling too, and then laughing, his shoulders shaking and his left hand held tightly over the wound on his side. They break eye contact and their laughter starts to settle, until Sherlock suddenly snorts and they look at each other and both lose control again into full-bodied laughter. Eventually they share a familiar silence.

"You were right, obviously," Sherlock says in an easy, conversational tone.

"Yeah, obviously."

"I saved your life again, then?" Sherlock smirks.

John rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I suppose so. What of it?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I'll continue to do that," he says, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. "I'd prefer you not take it unnecessarily."

"Hm. I reckon I'll continue to save your life too, you selfish wanker. How's this. I wont kill myself again if you don't kill yourself again."

"Agreed." Sherlock makes no effort to hide his grin. "Tea?"

And John takes the biscuits out of the shopping bag and puts the kettle on to boil.

* * *

The next morning John wakes up to find Sherlock standing in the living room, triumphant.

"Ah. You found it then." John can't stop the smile spreading across his face.

"I knew you'd keep it for me." Sherlock tightens the belt, pulls the collar up with an elegant flourish, and pivots, letting his coat swirl around him. "I'll collect the violin later. Must be off."

"Bloody hell!" John leaps to his feet and reaches the door just before Sherlock. "You got your bloody coat and you're leaving, just like that? Where? What… Sherlock, sit down!"

Sherlock is unsure for a moment. Things are becoming complicated, and not in the way that he likes. He turns and sits in the armchair, gathering his coat around him, and sighs. "I told you, John. I can't be here. It's dangerous for you."

"Did you lose your memory in the fall? It's always dangerous for me. Where are you going?"

"To track down the nerve centers of Moriarty's web, as I've previously told you." Sherlock taps his fingers together more rapidly, getting anxious.

"I'm going with you then. Just give me a minute to get dressed."

"No." Sherlock stands and head for the door again.

"Sherlock." The urgency in John's voice stops him in his tracks. He feels a chill down his spine as a thought occurs to him. "John… Should I take your gun?" The image flashes in front of him, John on the floor of this flat, the Browning in his mouth, flicking off the safety, squeezing the trigger, and he sees Moriarty's head pop back, the look in his eyes at the last moment of laughter and pride and, of all things, surprise, and the noise, the bang that seemed to follow after his body hit the ground.

"Sherlock… no. Jesus, it's not… You're alive. And that's good. And I still need to beat you to a pulp for what you did to me, but you're alive. So… no. But…" John suddenly thinks, and can't believe this never occurred to him before, maybe he doesn't want to work with me anymore.

"I do. You're most helpful, John. It's odd, I worked quite well without you for years, but now I realize that working with you often enhanced my capabilities. I think better when I can talk to you, especially when you don't reply too much, and you're very good at shooting my enemies and treating my injuries, and you've surprised or amused me on multiple occasions. I've missed you, naturally. But as I told you, this is dangerous. Shouldn't you go to work, you haven't gone in what, six days?"

John narrows his eyes. "Sherlock, it's always dangerous. Make sense."

Sherlock sighs and stares at the ceiling. "If you died, it would be… unacceptable."

John raises an eyebrow. "Unacceptable?"

"Intolerable. No way out."

"Yes." John clears his throat and nods. "I survived for 39 years before I met you, Sherlock. I survived my father, my stepfather, and three and a half tours in Afghanistan. I've been shot and I've been sick and I've been beaten within an inch of my life. I've walked through minefields. I've watched friends die in front of me. I've killed a number of people. I've tried to save lives and sometimes I've succeeded and sometimes I've failed and felt them die under my hands. And I reckon you've been through some absolutely unbelievable scrapes as well, without me around. So we can both take care of ourselves, can we not?"

Sherlock grunts.

"And we're more effective when we help each other."

"That hypothesis is far from proven."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"You made me weak." Sherlock hears Mycroft's voice in his head: Caring is not an advantage. We are not like other people, Sherlock, let it go.

Silence. John's face is red and he opens his mouth to say more but chokes on the words. Sherlock's stomach ties up in confusion. He has only said what is true, so how can it be wrong? And why does he care?

"John, don't be like that. Moriarty got to me through you, that's obvious. It's like you said last night. People can be habit-forming. I've become dependent on you. It's very important to me that you're alive and well, and you are, more or less. And now I need to wean myself off this dependency. It's obviously not healthy."

"Healthy! Since when have you cared about healthy?"

"Well, you do. And you'd agree anything that forces me to jump off a building is not good for my health."

"You _bastard_. I did not force you to jump off that building. Bloody Moriarty forced you to jump off that building. I'm the one who protects you, that's…" John falters, he wants to say, that's what I do, but he suddenly feels pathetic, like there's nothing left of him after all this. He closes his eyes for a moment and looks back at Sherlock, who has narrowed his eyes in concentration.

"I have been dependent, to varying degrees, on heroin, cocaine, methamphetamines, morphine, oxycodone, and nicotine. I'm intimately familiar with the symptoms of addiction and withdrawal and I'm an idiot for not noticing it earlier, until you pointed out the connection yesterday. You, John, my conductor of light. While we lived together, I became gradually more and more dependent on you – your assistance and your presence. I've also missed your pancakes. And our separation has been difficult. For both of us, apparently. But experience has taught me that addiction dulls my senses, slows my brain, makes me vulnerable. Experience has also taught me that the most effective way to end an addiction is a clean break." He thinks again of dry-heaving on his hands and knees, clawing his own skin in a room with no doors, just a silent, immovable brother. "It's quite simple, John. Be reasonable."

"Be… reasonable?" John grabs his head in his hands, trying desperately to force his brain into a usable form. "Ok. Ok. You love the game, right? How do you feel when you have nothing to solve?"

"Bored," Sherlock says, and thinks that this conversation is about to become boring and he really should go.

"Bored, yes. And restless and agitated, to the point of destructive and self-destructive behavior at times?"

"At times, yes."

"And how is that different from withdrawal?"

He pauses. "It doesn't hurt."

John stares at him. Sherlock has the oddest way of flickering, sometimes, like a radio station going in an out of range. His face may be completely impassive, his eyes taking in everything but transmitting nothing, and then suddenly the signal comes in crystal clear and blaring and there it is: fear. And then it flickers back to static.

"Sherlock…" John licks his lips and swallows. "I think this thing that you are calling addiction… is what other people call..." John swallows again. He knows the fear is blatant on his own face. "…love? Not romantic love," he adds quickly. "Love between friends, you know. It's… normal," he adds weakly, because what does normal have to do with anything where Sherlock is involved?

"Love?" Sherlock scoffs, his face twisted into a grotesque sneer, and John has to act quickly to throw up a wall in his mind, to remind himself, this is Sherlock, don't react, it doesn't mean what it would mean from other people, it's Sherlock. "You're aware that I've been diagnosed as a sociopath?"

"You've mentioned, yes."

"When I was initially diagnosed at age 14, sociopathy had its own entry in the DSM, but today it is considered a subset of antisocial personality disorder." Sherlock's voice is sharp and fast, as if running through the evidence at a crime scene. "I'm sure you remember the definition from medical school, John. Failure to conform to social norms as indicated by repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest." He rattles it off as if reading it off a page, ticking off a check mark in the air as he goes. "Deception, as indicated by repeatedly lying, use of aliases, or conning others for personal profit or pleasure." Here, he throws John a crooked, stomach-twisting smile. "Impulsiveness. Irritability and aggressiveness. Reckless disregard for safety of self or others. Consistent irresponsibility. Lack of remorse."

Sherlock pauses and raises one eyebrow. "Wouldn't you say I have all of those? I only need three. Plus, of course, conduct disorder with onset before age 15 years, and I assure you, that criterion is well satisfied. Furthermore, depending on which of my shockingly simple and unimaginative psychiatric files you look at, you might read that I have reputation-defending antisocial personality disorder with narcissistic features, risk-taking antisocial personality disorder with histrionic features, nomadic antisocial personality disorder with schizoid and/or avoidant features, or some combination of the above. Differential diagnoses bestowed upon me – depressive disorder, impulsive disorder, substance-related disorders of course, histrionic personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, and the ever-popular borderline personality disorder – commonly coexist with antisocial personality disorder and have often been considered correlated in my particular case. The clear conclusion of a veritable army of your brethren in the psychiatric field is that I am incapable of affection or empathy. I don't care about others. I do not _love_."

John takes a deep breath. "Well, then." He tilts his head and meets Sherlock's eyes. "You really are an extraordinary actor. You may have missed your true calling."

"I acted in school," Sherlock replies. "It was easy. Tedious."

"You're also a complete moron."

He regards John with some curiosity. In point of fact, he's never thought that much about his diagnosis. The day he initially received it (of course he wasn't supposed to know, but stealing his file was child's play, literally), he read everything he could find on the subject. He quickly determined that it was largely irrelevant, deleted most of it beyond the definition, and devoted little time or energy to the subject after that. Of course that had not been his first psychiatrist and it was not his last. Over the years, he was dragged to another and another and another, each more intellectually deficient than the last. At first, he amused himself by playing games with them. He convinced one Dr. Shankar to diagnose him with schizophrenia, a Dr. Greene to diagnose him with obsessive-compulsive disorder and anorexia nervosa, and a Dr. O'Brien to diagnose him with dissociative identity disorder (13 distinct personalities and two compound). He was also diagnosed with Personality Disorder Not Otherwise Specified twelve times. He found psychiatry rather dull, however, and tired of the game, turning his attention instead to evading the appointments altogether or if he failed, shutting down completely and retreating to his mind palace. Still, he interacted with each psychiatrist just long enough and just honestly enough to see, out of mild curiosity, if they would agree with that first diagnosis. They always did. It didn't bother him; if anything, he considered it an asset. Sanity is boring, the epitome of boring. Sociopathy sets him apart from and above the ordinary people. It allows him to do his work. There is no proven correlation between his diagnosis and his genius, but he notes anecdotally that the most intelligent people he has ever met – his father, his brother, Moriarty – all share certain qualities, chief among them a notable lack of empathy. Still, he hasn't actually questioned the diagnosis, and its conclusions, since he was 14. Interesting.

John continues. "You care about Mrs. Hudson. You threw that American out the window because he hurt her."

"I was irritated. It would have been exceedingly inconvenient if our landlady was killed."

"But she wasn't killed, so you had no reason to be irritated about that. And you weren't irritated, you were homicidal."

"If I was homicidal, that American would be dead," Sherlock replies. "I don't like it when men hit women," he adds in a low, dark voice.

"I see," John answers quietly. "I don't either." After a pause he adds, "If you don't care about me and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, why not just let us die then? As you pointed out, you've gone to an awful lot of trouble to keep us alive."

"I've explained already," Sherlock replies condescendingly. "An addict will go to great lengths, even risk his own life, for his fix."

"Your fix." John makes an uncomfortable noise in the back of his throat. "That's me then." Sherlock eyes him carefully. Is John angry or pleased? Neither reaction matters, but he has no idea whether this should be considered "good" or not, and he's wholly intrigued by the ambiguity in John's face. And, he realizes with a start, maybe it does matter. Maybe he's gone about this conversation all wrong.

"Are you saying Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were irrelevant?" John continues. "You wouldn't have saved them if I wasn't part of the package?"

Sherlock tries to wave the question away casually, but his hand trembles ever so slightly. John notices. "Don't know. That hypothetical is irrelevant, so I've never considered it."

"Ah. But. I wasn't just your fix, was I? Because you told me yourself, you didn't even know you if you were going to see me again. So you threw yourself off a building, faked your own death, put Molly Hooper through god knows what, went into hiding, and started methodically hunting down assassins around the world because you are an addict and you needed to keep your fix alive in case maybe, sometime in the future, you might possibly come back to retrieve it. And then when you do, you decide to quit cold turkey. Is that about the size of it?"

"As I said, addiction slows my brain," Sherlock replies imperiously. Then, "I need a cigarette," and he sounds pitiful. John hasn't allowed him to smoke since he arrived and for some reason John can't comprehend, Sherlock has humored him.

"Fine," John sighs. His chest hurts and his head hurts and he doesn't understand this conversation.

Sherlock shoots John a sad, grateful smile that pulls his chest even tighter. John brushes past him to the kitchen to get his whiskey as Sherlock grabs his new coat, the horrid one, off the hook, and pulls a pack of Dunhills from the pocket.

They sit on the sofa together. John sips his whiskey and watches Sherlock enjoy the first drag. He pulls the smoke in, luxurious, eyes closed, and lets it swirl slowly out of his mouth.

John clears his throat awkwardly and drinks some more. "Have you ever considered –"

"Yes."

John rolls his eyes. "… that you are a piss poor sociopath? Is it possible that your diagnosis is… not altogether accurate?"

Sherlock looks sideways at him. "You're a doctor. I would've thought you'd put more stock in it than that."

"And you're the world's only consulting detective. I would've thought you'd put less. I'm surprised you care so much about what a bunch of doctors think." He tries to smile. "You never care what I think."

Sherlock turns to face him, eyes blazing blue. "You're wrong." He turns his attention back to his cigarette.

"Sherlock…" John racks his brain for more arguments. He is trying to be reasonable. But there's nothing left. "I am not your fix. I am your friend. Please."

Sherlock shrugs. "You can be both," he says, like he's doing John a favor.

Right, John thinks, that's as close as the wanker will ever get to admitting he's wrong. Close enough. "I'm coming with you," he announces. "And if you don't let me, I'll track you."

Sherlock snorts derisively. "And how would you do that, John?"

"Mycroft."

"I hardly think Mycroft will take your view on this. He's forced me to get clean before."

John sighs. Time to play dirty, he decides. He can't afford the alternative. "If Mycroft won't help me, I'll track you by myself. How do you see that working out, Sherlock? Do you think I'll get myself killed?"

Worry flickers across Sherlock's face.

"Right then. Where are we going?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: The following chapters were written much later than Chapter 1. The continuity works, but the format is different, which bothers me. Maybe someday I'll go back and rewrite chapter 1 so it matches. For now, that's my disclaimer/apology.

* * *

He's on the roof with Moriarty again, but it's dark. Either it's a moonless night with no city lights, or this building is somehow inside an enormous, pitch-black room. It feels that way; the air is closed and still. He knows what's about to happen but he makes no attempt to stop it. "Bless you," Moriarty says, and grabs Sherlock's hand, and opens his mouth wide. And then the gun is in John's mouth, there's no sound at all, just brains and blood and bits of skull exploding behind him and Sherlock is reaching around him, trying to close the hole, wrapping his arms around John's head and pulling him to his chest, to the ground, but he knows as he falls that he's failed, the hole is much much much too big.

Sherlock wakes with a start. He's sweaty and John is leaning over him with a look that suggests he might have been making noises. Humiliating. He rolls over on his side, away from John, and closes his eyes although that is the last thing he wants to do. The insides of his eyelids are black and painted with the blood and brains and skull fragments of John Watson.

"Sherlock?" John's voice is calm and only a little hesitant. "Nightmare?"

Sherlock snorts. He doesn't have nightmares. Or didn't, until he jumped off a building. Since then, it's been a veritable festival of horror. Recurring nightmares are a phenomenon he doesn't fully understand and, thankfully, has never experienced. He suspects that the combination of uncontrollable terror rising from the depths of his psyche _plus monotony _would be enough to drive him over the edge. No, his subconscious is just as creative as his conscious, offering him something new every time he allows himself to sink into REM sleep. They're not all masterpieces. This one, for instance. He knows he's tired because this one is rather pedestrian. In contrast, consider the one he had Tuesday, where John's head did not explode at all, but oozed violin strings and spaghetti from the perfectly round hole in the back of his skull, and after Sherlock sat cross-legged on the rooftop and watched the corpse ooze for an interminable amount of time, John sat up and started eating the pasta with relish, and finally looked up and grinned at Sherlock with pointed teeth. That was more original. Still, there's something to be said for a literal approach. The contents of John's head, flying out of his reach, probably exactly the way they really would only slower, is an image that Sherlock can't yet shake or handle. Without realizing it, he has clutched his arms to his chest, where John's dead body was last seen.

"Sherlock, it's ok," John is murmuring. "I mean, it's not. It's not bloody ok at all when it happens. But you're safe." He sounds just a little embarrassed to be saying those words, but he continues. "It makes you feel you're mad, doesn't it? It can be so real. It's like you can be more frightened in a dream than you ever would when you're awake. And that's alright. If you are. I'm here."

Sherlock is staring at the wall. The insides of his eyelids are still not a safe place to be. "What good does that do?" he asks in a hoarse voice. He doesn't care about the answer, it's really just that he wants John to keep talking.

"I don't know for you, but for me, when I wake from a nightmare it's good… to see I'm not alone. For a long time, I was. Sometimes the waking was worse than the dream, then. But after I moved into Baker Street, I'd wake up and sometimes hear you playing violin or crashing about the flat, doing whatever daft thing you do in the middle of the night, and it was better. After a while, I felt better even if I didn't hear anything. I suppose because I'd got used to you. I knew you'd be there." John makes a tiny, uncomfortable but conclusive _hmph _sound, like he feels he's said more than enough.

Sherlock wants him to keep talking. There's a part of him that wants him to talk about anything other than his feelings, but also a part of him that desperately wants to be the center of John's attention at all times, and another part that doesn't care what he talks about as long as that calm voice keeps going. So that's two parts against one. "And then? After I left?"

"Oh. I thought we were done with that subject. Well, you know. I was alone. Again. Very. And the nightmares... well. They weren't any better, that's certain. And when I woke up, the silence was worse than it had been before. Before, silence was just silence, that was bad enough. After, silence meant you were dead."

Sherlock swallows. "I'm not dead."

"Yeah, I think that's pretty well-established now."

"I dream about you being dead. Sometimes."

John says nothing.

"Say something."

"Don't know what to say, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

"Anything. Just... talk. Really, about anything."

"That's really your area, isn't it? Prattling on incessantly. Not my forte."

"Honestly, John, you're making me repeat myself a third time, that can't be necessary. Anything. Really."

John seizes on the first pleasant thing that comes to mind, an abandoned lot where he and Harry used to play. The abandoned flat where he and Sherlock are currently squatting has had him thinking about that place. He tells Sherlock about the stupid games they used to get up to, climbing contests and king of the mountain, building forts out of rubbish and lumber and pieces of fence and playing at war. Sherlock doesn't care in the slightest about the summer they found a lost puppy and tried to keep it there or the time John's friend stepped on a nail and got tetanus. He deletes the words the moment he hears them and retains only the solid, warm, earthiness of John's voice. He breathes deeply, slowly, and his eyes are open.

* * *

John is on the sidewalk in front of Bart's. The one directly in front of Bart's, the rectangle where he knows Sherlock will fall. He is absolutely certain he will be able to catch him. He is strong enough. "Go ahead," he says into his radio. "I've got you, over." Then he returns the radio to its holster, adjusts his helmet and stretches out his arms. The figure above him doesn't move. He's backlit by the sun so John can't see his face. The figure just stands there on the ledge, his coat fluttering dramatically around him. "You look pretentious, not mysterious!" John yells. "Just jump already, I'm cold!" The figure doesn't even look down. And then, so slowly, he lifts up his arms like an angel, and takes one graceful step forward. John reaches up and is so focused, he almost doesn't notice the bullet. Until he does. The searing pain through his left shoulder is pulling him down and he thinks "I can still do this, I can, stand up for god's sake" but it's useless, he's down on one knee, he's clutching his shoulder against his will, he feels the blood pulsing over his hand, and he looks up and Sherlock is falling, still falling, now he can see Sherlock's face and read terror all across it and the chasm in John's chest is the knowledge that there is absolutely nothing he can do.

There's a hand on his shoulder. He jerks away and sits up, full of adrenaline, ready to fight. It's just Sherlock, looking worried, which will never not be disconcerting. His shoulder is throbbing.

"You were talking," Sherlock says, almost accusatorily.

"Was I?" John tries to appear unconcerned, but he's surprised. "What did I say?"

"Sherlock."

"Oh." Awkward. "You were falling. I couldn't catch you."

Sherlock looks away. "I assumed you dreamed about the war."

"I do. You introduced a new dimension, that's all."

"I see." Sherlock looks intensely uncomfortable.

"So… thanks for that. Wouldn't want to get bored, now would we?" John smiles. Weakly at first, then genuinely, because that's Sherlock in a nutshell, isn't it? Horror and agony over boredom. We should claim that as our motto and get shirts printed up.

"No, definitely not." Sherlock smiles back. "Glad I could help." He clears his throat. "Do they recur?"

"Do what now? Oh. Sometimes I have the same ones again, yes. This one. This one I've had before."

"How dull. I never have the same one twice. But there's a technique called imagery rehearsal -"

"Yes, I know. My therapist had me try it. Doesn't work. However, I wished you back alive and that worked, so maybe I should concentrate on that technique."

Sherlock chuckles.

"Don't think I'll get back to sleep tonight," John says after a silence. The worst thing about that particular dream is not the bullet. It's knowing that he failed, that he could not be strong enough, not even close. Like a rock in his stomach, pulling him down through the ground, it stays with him for hours after he wakes. Days, sometimes. "You're not sleeping anyway, are you?"

"No." Sherlock settles back to the position he must have been in before he woke John up, sitting against the wall with his knees tucked up in front of him, his hands clasped over his knees. "Thinking."

"Would you mind thinking out loud?"

"As you know, I prefer to." And Sherlock begins his rhythmic muttering, a cascade of words that rise and fall and speed and slow like the world's longest and most erratic roller coaster. Only bits and pieces make sense, and even those aren't connected to anything that matters. John just sinks into the rich timbre of Sherlock's voice, dark like mahogany, like wine, like really good coffee, like a night that is soft and quiet and not full of danger, the sort of night that will probably never happen again. He lies on his side and watches Sherlock, who never minds being watched, and lets the words rumble across him until sunrise.

* * *

He's walking through Central London. He's been walking forever. London cannot possibly be this big. His boots have worn blisters into his feet and the straps of his field pack are digging painfully into his shoulders, but he never thinks of stopping. He's looking for something important. What, or who, exactly, is hard to remember. It's hovering just outside his mind, but he knows that if he keeps walking, he'll either find it or remember it. Sometimes the buildings quiver and melt away. As always, he's acutely aware of the slightest movement around him, so the moment the buildings start to fade, he notices. But it never seems to affect him, so he doesn't react, he just keeps walking. Sometimes the buildings lean in. That's worse. He's aware that they could fall on him and he doesn't have any viable escape routes. When they start to lean, his heart pounds in his chest and his senses sharpen, his finger strokes the trigger of his gun, but he keeps walking. There's nothing else he can do. Then suddenly, there's a loud POP and the buildings are just gone. Instead, all around him, above and below, is yawning blackness. Terror wells up from the pit of his stomach but before he can react, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns, and it's Jim, wearing an innocent smile and an impeccably tailored suit. "Baby," Jim coos, "don't be scared" and then suddenly his brown eyes flash yellow and he lunges forward with unsheathed claws.

Sebastian wakes up gripping his throat. His t-shirt is damp with sweat.

He groans and rolls out of bed. He stands for a while, staring at his reflection in the mirror and the city lights beyond it. Sirens and car horns and drunken yells occasionally sound off in the distance, but for the most part, London is calm.

He drops to the floor and starts doing push ups. Not counting, just pushing, letting the blood in his veins and the roar in his ears and the soft grunt in his throat take over everything else. This has always been the best way to clear his brain. But there's Jim, sitting in the chair by the desk, watching him with laughter on his lips. Like that time Jim flounced over and sat on his back, just dropped all his weight on it mid push up, and Sebastian crashed to the floor yelling "What the FUCK!" and Jim just sat there, primly smiling and examining his cuticles until he was bored. And Sebastian let him, of course.

So he's thinking about Jim after all. Pull ups then, on the bar mounted in the bathroom doorway. It's strange, he thinks. You can't really miss someone who was never really there. In many ways, nothing has changed. Jim would disappear for days, weeks, months at a time, and then suddenly there would be a text with cryptic instructions, or he would simply show up at Sebastian's flat with a Cheshire grin, and Sebastian would let him in, every time. You don't say no to someone like that. And he was happy, actually, to take orders from a madman. The army had been no different, except that there everyone was pretending that the madman was sane. That dishonesty - that's what Sebastian couldn't stand. He hated that about Jim, too. You never knew with anything he said. He would say things just to try them on, just to see how they felt sliding out of his mouth, and there was no distinction at all for him between the truth and the lie. Sebastian never said anything about it because he knew Jim would take it as evidence of his ordinariness.

Sebastian knows he's not ordinary. He might not be a genius like Jim, but he is exceptional and always has been. Jim saw that.

When Jim was around, Sebastian basked in his glow. When Jim was gone, Sebastian gave off his own light. Now Jim is gone and not coming back and that's just as well. He was never really here even when he was here, Sebastian thinks, because this world can't fully contain a man like that.

Sebastian flops back onto his bed. A man like himself can do fine in this world, however. Ordinary enough to breathe the air. Extraordinary enough to shine, if he wants to.

He's lived in Hong Kong, Mexico City, Seoul, Rome, New York. London is just a town by comparison, small and very quiet. He listens to the soft thump of his own heart and stares at the ceiling until he hears the sounds of the city waking up.


	3. Chapter 3

John's too slow and it's irritating. There's so much research to be done and John can barely keep up. He also has to be watched all the time. It's bloody exhausting, and Sherlock has decided that bringing John along was a serious mistake. But on the other hand, what if he hadn't? Wouldn't he just be hanging around John's flat trying to keep an eye on him? Or would he have to trust Mycroft's surveillance? No, all things considered, better to keep him here, in reach, in sight.

"You can't go out alone," Sherlock says for the 16th time, grabbing John's arm. "It's not safe."

"Do not treat me like a child," John hisses, wrenching his arm away. "Bad enough that you lied to me, kept me in the dark for all that time. Now you want to tuck me in your coat like a baby chick? You know I can take care of myself. And I'll remind you that I have taken care of you more than the other way round. I am armed and well-trained and very pissed off. I will walk about the streets of London by myself."

Sherlock stands back and watches John storm out the door, and then tails him all night.

* * *

The abandoned flat is… well, it keeps out the rain. Most of the building is abandoned as well, situated on a block that the rest of London was glad to forget. There's a fire escape that empties out into a sad little alley. It's easy to not be seen here, and that's the point.

It's also easy to be cold. Sherlock has somehow procured camping gear of rather impressive quality, so they really could be worse off. And John knows, from the matter of fact way that Sherlock settles himself into a sleeping bag fully clothed and opens up a cold tin of beans that he's been living this way for some time. John also knows this is insane. That a single phone call to Mycroft could have them both in soft, clean beds, under downy comforters, in front of crackling fires, within minutes. But that would be Sherlock's call to make, and he hasn't made it.

There's insanity, which is to be expected, and there's danger, which John doesn't fully understand, and there's damp and cold, which he understands all too well, but every morning he wakes up grateful to be freezing his arse off with Sherlock instead of comfortably chocking to death on his own loneliness.

* * *

Sebastian stands on his balcony, looking out over the city. His hands rest in his pockets. Before Jim, he never would have worn a suit like this; he never would have worn a suit at all, voluntarily. But when Jim bought him the Westwood, he understood. It was power. Very simple, very familiar, very comfortable. He didn't realize how much he'd missed his old uniform, the snap of a salute and the click of heels when others responded to it. Even civilians. Especially civilians. Enlisted would stand up straighter; civilians would lower their heads just slightly, instinctively submissive. The Westwood, he now understood, was a uniform. And a much more flattering one at that, thanks to Jim's insistence on the very best tailoring money could by.

Jim picked out this tie, a deep navy that he said brought out Sebastian's eyes. And then he held his head and tried to lick his eyeballs.

"You try too hard, boss." Sebastian had said. "You don't have to go out of your way to look crazy, no one ever questions it." Jim had laughed, prompting Sebastian into a crooked smile. For Jim to laugh, actually laugh like a human because he genuinely thought something was funny, was a rare thing and Sebastian felt like he'd won a prize every time he made it happen.

He rolls his shoulders and checks the time on his mobile. Yes, it's time to actually get this thing started. If Jim were here, he'd probably put on a stupid song and try to get Sebastian to dance with him. Sebastian wonders if maybe he should have danced, just once. No. Definitely not. He makes a call.


	4. Chapter 4

John requires food regularly, multiple times a day. Sherlock understands that nothing could be more normal, but in spite of that fact – ok, fine, because of it – he finds it thoroughly exasperating. The need to eat regularly is enough of a nuisance when ensconced in the comfortable lifestyle of a young professional bachelor on Baker Street. In the lifestyle of a hunted fugitive on the forgotten streets of London, it is intolerable. Why can't John see that, and change his habits accordingly? Sherlock has tried, very patiently, to explain it to him.

"I wasn't born like this, you know," Sherlock told him, narrowing his eyes very seriously.

John's eyes widened. "You weren't? Was it some kind of horrible experiment? Young Frankenstein?"

Sherlock sighed. "I mean about food. I used to eat like a normal person. When I was a child, I ate voraciously, in fact. It wasn't until I went away to uni that I realized what a terrible waste of time and energy food is."

"You know, most experts actually consider food to be a source of energy."

"Yes, John, funny. But the effort of procuring and preparing food is so involved and inefficient. It's a terrible distraction. So I learned how to live without it."

"How did you do that?"

"I was doing a lot of drugs then. That helped. But I also studied asceticism, particularly in the Jainist tradition. I determined exactly how many calories I needed in order to keep my body performing the necessary activities. I ate what I needed to and no more. And obviously since then I have continued to recalibrate that calculation as my body and lifestyle have changed. It's ridiculously simple, John, there's no reason you can't do the same thing, and I wish you would because your constant need for food both hinders and endangers us."

"I am not going to stop eating, Sherlock."

Stubborn bastard.

Sherlock sighs. And now John is insisting on going out there again to forage for food, scurrying about like a vacant little squirrel, to the shops, to the restaurants. It would at least be interesting if there were hunting involved. But here, Sherlock and John are the prey, and John's not safe on his own.

He's heading for the Tesco. He knows the money's running out. And this is one of the things about eating when you're hiding, you can't keep going to the same spots. So John's developed a very complicated system of shops and restaurants in concentric circles radiating from their squat, and alternates his routes in a pattern that would seem random if you weren't paying very close attention. Of course, Sherlock is paying attention, and he has to admit it's not entirely stupid. He's not displeased by the knowledge that the old John Watson, the pre-Sherlock John Watson, would never have come up with something like this. Then again, the old John Watson wouldn't have needed to.

This particular route lends itself well to rooftop surveillance, which is Sherlock's favorite kind, even after the mess in Tottenham. He hasn't figured out a viable way to monitor John inside the store, so he technically has to let him out of his sight for that long. But it seems more advisable to stay on the roof, where he has a view of both entrances. Anyone leaving the front or back will be seen and quickly apprehended. And now John is leaving the front, carrying a plastic bag in his left hand, his right hand tucked in his pocket where, Sherlock knows, it rests on a loaded Browning. The new John Watson, the post-Sherlock John Watson, lives in a war zone even at the Tesco and is always ready to fire. John takes a right at the corner, unaware of the shadow turning above him.

Sherlock follows along as John walks back toward the flat. "Toward" is a relative term, since he takes an intentionally circuitous route, going out of his way by several blocks in three different directions, doubling back occasionally, avoiding any terrain that can leave easy tracks. Sherlock knows the army doesn't teach these tactics to doctors. John's learned it from him and figured it out himself. Sherlock takes a lot of credit. After all, he's fantastic, as John often reminds him, and surely anyone who spends as much time with him as John has will emerge a far more intelligent and competent person because of it. How could his brilliance not rub off on others? Even Lestrade is a bit less dense. But still, Sherlock has to admit to himself that John was soldier before he met him, probably even before he joined the army. At some point in his life it had become necessary, and he's a man who does things because they need to be done.

Sherlock hears it only a fraction of a second before John does, and they both turn in unison to identify the source. A woman screaming _help._ Sherlock runs toward her without looking down because he knows John will be running too. John will be a hero, and the question is how Sherlock can get down there fast enough to ensure that he doesn't get killed in the process. There, that fire escape will work nicely. He's flying down it when he realizes something's wrong.

John hasn't seen it yet. He's still running toward the screaming woman and the man standing behind her with one arm around her throat and the other hand between her legs. John is pulling out his gun and yelling _stop, _trying to make out how he can get a clear shot with the woman between them. But something's wrong. The stance of the two people, the rigidness of their legs, and where did they come from anyway? If they'd made any noise in their struggle before this, Sherlock would have heard it. He leaps the last few meters down from the fire escape, landing just as the woman hand moves toward the inside of her coat. It might be faster to shoot her, it certainly would be for John, but Sherlock has always trusted his own body more than a weapon. He just throws himself down the alley, slamming her into a wall with all the velocity and force he can command. He hears the gunshot, knows that the bullet has just whizzed behind his back as he barreled past, and feels a rush of relief just before hitting the wall.

* * *

"What the fuck!" John is less than eloquent. He's just killed a man, which might be fine, but he's not sure and he'd like more information, as well as a plan for the body. That part is not good, but not exceedingly confusing.

Confusing is Sherlock, picking himself up from a crumpled heap against a brick wall, and immediately stomping his foot on the throat of the woman he bodyslammed there.

Wasn't John rescuing that woman? Is Sherlock rescuing him? What the fuck is Sherlock doing here?

"What the fuck are you doing here, Sherlock?" No, wait. Not the most important question. "What are you doing to her?" That's better.

Sherlock is leaning against the wall with one arm, catching his breath but otherwise looking so casual you might forget there's a woman squirming and choking under his shoe. He takes his own gun out of his pocket and points it at her head with a rakish wink. Then he reaches inside her coat and pulls out a huge syringe. "Disarming her," he says with a grin.

John approaches and takes the syringe, then frowns. "Looks like a tranquilizer," he says. "For animals."

"I know."

"But why?"

"Let's ask." Sherlock turns back to the woman and smiles that very disturbing smile with the curling lip. It's really not John's favorite.

"First question. Who's watching us right now?"

She widens her eyes and shakes her head. Sherlock sighs dramatically and looks around him. He sees no cameras; of course he looks for them constantly. He grinds his foot just slightly into her throat, at a place John knows will feel for a second like death. You learn certain things about the human body from being a doctor, certain things from being a soldier, certain things from being the only son of Jack Watson, and certain things from walking with Sherlock Holmes. The cumulative effect is formidable. The woman claws wordlessly at Sherlock's shoe, and he lifts it just enough.

"I can make this very slow and very quiet. Who's watching us right now?"

"No one," she whispers.

"Alright. We may need to come back to that, but let's move on for now. Second question. What's the purpose of all this?"

The woman is wisely not using her breath on words any more than strictly necessary. She points at John.

John notices Sherlock inhale sharply and then slowly bend over the woman like a long, black-feathered bird of prey, his eyes fierce and hungry. "For him?" he asks, and his voice is so menacing John feels the chill, even though he knows it's meant to protect him. "Why?"

She shrugs. Sherlock grinds against her throat again and her eyes bug in panic.

"Sherlock, careful," John warns. "You'll kill her."

"Yes," Sherlock muses. "I expect I will." John falls silent. It's not that he wants Sherlock to kill the woman, it's just that… well, this seems to be war.

"Not yet, though." Sherlock grins at her again. "I think we have quite a bit of time yet."

John is not at all sure about that. His eyes dart back and forth, waiting for movement at each end of the alley. He is acutely aware of the body at his feet. It's actually quite large. They're going to have a hell of a time moving it.

"What were you supposed to do with him?"

"Take him," the woman gasps.

"Take him _where_," Sherlock asks impatiently.

"He knew." She waves a floppy hand in the direction of the dead man.

"And you didn't? Come now…" The woman chokes out, "Mobile."

"Oh?" Without moving his foot or his gun, he rummages around in her coat until he finds a phone, then clicks through it with a frown. "Not very popular, I see. Not a single number, not a single call. And who was going to send you your instructions? Who are you working for?"

The woman gasps for breath and says nothing.

"Oh please," Sherlock says, shaking his head condescendingly. "You're going to die anyway, you know that. Just tell me and get it over with." She says nothing. He begins to roll his foot across her throat slowly. Her arms jerk and her eyes bulge.

"Sherlock," John interrupts. "Stop, please stop."

Sherlock grimaces. "I am interrogating here, John, do you mind?"

"I do, sort of, mind, yes. You're torturing, is what you're doing, and I realize she meant me harm, but she wasn't going to kill me…"

"John, when did you get so squeamish? And what do you suppose she was going to do with your tranquilized body in the middle of the night? Throw you a surprise birthday party? Your birthday is in _August_, John."

"So it is."

"If you insist on having a debate about interrogation techniques and vigilantism, we can do that – I will abhor it, but I will humor you – later. But now is not the time. Do you mind?"

John sighs and shuts his eyes for a second. "Fine."

"_Thank you_." Only Sherlock could sound so put out by being asked nicely to reconsider torturing a woman to the brink of death. John runs his hand across his face and listens to Sherlock continue. "We were talking about your employer, I believe?"

"He's right," the woman gasps. "Not… killing… Not… me."

Sherlock growls through his teeth. "You're making me impatient. I am starting to think we should tranquilize you and take you some place where we can really have a _long _conversation."

The woman closes her eyes. John can see in that moment that she's given up.

"I'll ask you one last time before I get angry. Who sent you?"

"Moran," the woman gasps out, and Sherlock nods curtly, like it's exactly what he expected to hear.

"Good," he says. "But not enough. How about a first name?" The woman is silent. "A physical description." Nothing. "An accent… Identifying marks…." He rolls his foot again, slowly. "_Speak."_

"Cur…" Sherlock's eyes blaze as he leans down closer. "Cur…"

A siren. They hear it at the same time. Far away still, but coming closer. "_Sherlock!" _John hisses.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock answers, but doesn't turn his head.

John knows if Sherlock were here alone he'd be doing something stupid –ignoring the sirens completely and continuing his interrogation, or dragging the woman somewhere much too close by – but with John, he won't risk it. John resents that fact, but he's not above using it.

"_Sherlock_," he urges, "come on! Get me out of here!"

Sherlock's head snaps up and his lip curls in anger. The woman has stopped talking anyway; her future is laid out before her as clear as day.

In one fluid motion, Sherlock reaches down, lifts her head up almost tenderly, and wraps one arm around her throat. He bends his elbow quickly, decisively, and John turns away. He's not stopping this, and that's something he might have to reckon with later. But he doesn't have to watch it. He hears her feet skittering across the pavement and the last choking breaths from her throat and closes his eyes.

His mother was Catholic. They didn't go to church much and he never believed. He's seen a lot of dead people, and he's never sure why sometimes he feels compelled to do this and sometimes he doesn't, but he feels it now. He makes the sign of the cross and quickly recites a prayer under his breath. Then he turns back around to see how he can help.

* * *

"Seb, baby," Jim whispered to him once. "When I'm gone, will you blow up the world for me?"

"No," Sebastian replied, lighting a cigarette. He had no idea what this "gone" was. Was Jim planning suicide? Was he going to disappear? Was he thinking about a specific hit? Was he just preparing for the abstract inevitable? There would be no point in asking.

"Why not?" Jim pouted, "Without me, what use could it possibly be?"

Sebastian chuckled. "I live here," he said.

Jim shook his head sadly. "I worry about you, pet." Sebastian knew nothing could be further from the truth. "You were so lost when I found you. I want to make sure you'll be alright when I'm not here to tell you who to kill."

"Don't worry, boss. I seem to do alright telling myself who to kill."

"Yes, but that's so _booooooring! _How do you stand it? Is that all you're going to do?"

"What's this about then? D'you want me to carry on your legacy or something?"

Jim smiled. "That's so _cute_. I don't think you could. Just promise me you'll do something with it. For god's sake, Seb, please make it interesting." Jim threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. "Have some ambition. There's more than just killing, you know."

"I'm not clever. I play to my strengths."

"Of course you're not clever. But you're not just one of _them_. You're more." In spite of himself, Sebastian felt a little flush of pride. "This world does not deserve you," Jim whispered, his breath hot in Sebastian's ear. Sebastian looked sideways at Jim, his cigarette dangling from his lips. He knew this was a low bar. Jim didn't think this world deserved much of anything. Still, he was a bit flattered to be set above it to any degree. He knew that was the point. "I think you could burn it to ashes if you wanted to."

"Not really my style," Sebastian answered dryly.

"No. You'd prefer to hunt them all down one by one?" Jim purred.

"I play to my strengths."

"Yes. So do I."

Sebastian jumped as teeth suddenly dug into his throat and nails scraped across his stomach. His cigarette fell from his mouth as he growled and twisted, but he let himself be dragged to the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

The siren is getting closer.

Sherlock drags the woman's body over next to the man's. He stands back, presses his fingertips against his lips, and takes in the scene, like an artist surveying a work in progress. The bullet through the man's forehead is far less than ideal; it's extremely unlikely that anyone, especially someone of her stature, being strangled from behind could do that. But it's not completely impossible and it's what he has to work with under the circumstances. Single bullet to the head – really, John is a good shot.

So, if he was strangling her, and she'd been able to squeeze off one incredibly lucky shot over her head and backwards with essentially her dying breath – _god this is stupid, but they'll buy it –_ then his body would have landed back like _this, _and she would've crumpled right _here. _Yes. That will have to do.

Sherlock impatiently holds out his empty hand in John's general direction. The Browning appears in it.

The siren is very close.

Sherlock uses a corner of his sleeve to thoroughly wipe the gun. Then he puts the dead man's fingerprints on it and finally sets it next to the dead woman's hand. He rearranges her fingers so that it seems to have just fallen from them. Finally, almost as an afterthought, he takes both of their wallets.

"Sherlock!" John sounds appalled. Sherlock looks up at him and shakes his head. This sensitivity is disappointing. Not what he expected.

"Data, John." He feels like he's talking to a child, and it comes through in his voice. "No time." He starts to run for the fire escape, knowing John will be right behind, but then stops. "The shopping."

John makes a strange noise in the back of his throat and runs back to pick up the bag he'd dropped when he heard the woman scream.

They both disappear up the fire escape and across the rooftops just as the police cars round the corner.

* * *

"You've killed people before. Without any sentiment." Sherlock's voice is as barren and cold as this room. It's the damp, stinking basement of an abandoned house because Sherlock has deemed the abandoned flat (which John had, perversely enough, started to think of as _home)_ no longer safe.

"Yes. But only when they were trying to kill me. Or you. Or my troop. Not up close. Not slowly. Not like that." John sits on the floor, leaning against the wall, the shopping bag between his feet. He's not hungry anymore.

"Then you're a coward."

By the time he fully processes what he's heard, John realizes he's flown across the room and pinned Sherlock against the wall. "Say that again," he snarls, "say that word to me again."

Sherlock's lips twitch just slightly and John knows he is amused. He will kill this man someday, he's sure of it.

"John," Sherlock says calmly, "you are the bravest person I know. But a man who will inflict death from 20 meters but refuse to look it in the face, is a coward."

John backs off just a bit. It's not like he hasn't thought that himself. A cabbie who's murdered several people without blinking an eye is one thing. An anonymous, invisible Afghani is something else. And he's wondered, of course, who he's shot, who he's killed, who they thought they were shooting, if he would have been able to do it if he'd seen them close, as close as that woman in the alley tonight.

He lets go of Sherlock and scoots back to his former position.

"You've changed," he says weakly.

"I told you, I killed a lot of people during my hiatus."

"And tortured?"

"Some, yes, as needed."

"You didn't mention that part."

"It wasn't relevant."

"It is now."

"Yes."

John looks up from his hands and sees Sherlock worrying his bottom lip.

"I'm not a psychopath," Sherlock adds.

John meets his eyes. "I know," he says.

"I don't enjoy it. It's a means to an end."

"Yes, I know. Except that… you sort of did, didn't you?"

"It's more effective if they think I enjoy it. It's an act."

"It's very convincing. Only an act, are you sure?"

"Well, and I enjoy winning," Sherlock replies with a frown. "Don't you?"

"I do." John stops and considers this for a moment. "I really do."

"I know. Also…" Sherlock clears his throat and taps his fingers together. "In her case, I might have had some extra enthusiasm. She was going to hurt you. As I've told you, I'm not letting that happen."

John doesn't want to admit this, but if he caught someone who posed a real and immediate danger to Sherlock, he would feel some extra enthusiasm too. Does that make it ok? He used to have a firm grasp on "ok" but now he's not at all sure what that means or why it would be relevant to his life. "What was she going to do, Sherlock?"

"I don't know." John feels a twinge of sympathy; it's ridiculous but he imagines Sherlock feels physical pain every time he has to say that. "I suppose Moran wanted information out of you, or he was going to use you as bait to catch me. I'm hoping he'll tell me himself." He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out the phone he took from the dead woman, and flips it in the air.

"The trap…" John shakes his head. "I ran right into it. Literally. Right bloody into their waiting arms. If you hadn't been there… Sherlock, how long have you been tailing me?"

"Well, you see what would happen if I wasn't."

"Right." John wants to be furious about this, he is not a helpless kitten and resents being treated as such, but then again, he almost ran directly into syringe full of tranquilizer just hours ago. "I am an idiot."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock agrees. "But also an amazing shot. You hit that man in the forehead, while running, just after I cleared. Quite incredible. I can't shoot like that."

In spite of himself, John beams. Sherlock complimenting him on a talent he himself lacks. Well, that's notable.

"So as I've argued before, we make a good team. We compliment one another."

"Excuse me, Sherlock, I believe _I've_ argued that before. Strenuously. Your position has been more along the lines of 'Alone protects me' and 'Stay away, I'm a sociopath.'"

"But I've also advanced the teamwork argument. My brains, your gun…"

"No. You haven't. That was all me."

"No, I _have_, John. It's not my fault if you weren't listening."

"Oh, I listen. I listen to you till my ears bleed and believe me, if I heard you agreeing with me for a change, I would remember."

"Yes, because your ideas are usually bloody awful and stupid, which is how I know this argument is mine…"

The bickering fills the dank basement, long enough to settle into each dark corner so that by the time they wind down, it sort of feels like home.

They don't have their camping gear. They don't have anything, and it's very cold. Sherlock lies down, holds his coat open with one arm, and says, matter-of-factly, "Here."

John knows he should protest but Sherlock is obviously right about this one. He grumbles incoherently, mostly to keep up appearances, and crawls into Sherlock's arms. He would have thought Sherlock would be all hard angles and lines and bones, but it's surprisingly comfortable. Wool envelopes them both, trapping in their body heat. He wishes for a dreamless night, for both of them.

* * *

Sebastian takes off his jacket, folds it carefully, and drapes it across his chair. He's disappointed. No use in pretending otherwise. He really had hoped tonight would turn out differently. But he's not exactly surprised either. The objectives of tonight's operation were, in order of importance:

1. A test (How closely does Sherlock Holmes guard John Watson?)

2. A shot across the bow.

3. The kidnapping of Watson himself, only if possible. It was unrealistic to hope that it would be that easy.

But the first objective has been met, and the answer is "extremely closely." That poses additional challenges as well as additional opportunities.

The second objective has been met, so it's in motion now.

And the third objective is now the only objective.

It's funny. Sebastian's first impulse, when he realized Sherlock Holmes was alive, was to kill him. That was just simple mathematics. He had to stop and think and remember Jim's counsel before he began to see the myriad possibilities.

He remembers Jim, long before that, leaning his chin on his hands on top of Sebastian's chest, smiling in a way that suggested no good for anyone.

"Baby," he asked languidly, "have you ever hurt someone… _really_ hurt someone… just for the sheer joy of it?"

"No," Sebastian answered. He was never one for theatrics. He liked to get the job done.

"I _knew_ it," Jim said, rolling his eyes. "_Ugh_, Seb, you are _such_ a stick in the mud! It's always work work work with you. Come _on!_" He jumped up and started looking around for his pants. "Let's go have some _fun!_"

And they did. God, what a night. Sebastian really had no idea anything could be so much fun.

He'll never have Jim's flair for it, he doesn't have the creativity or the ingenuity, but he does have the attention to detail and, he's discovered, a deep appreciation for pain.

He has never had another teacher like Jim Moriarty, and he never will again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Cur. **

Names: Curt, Curtis, Kirk, Kirby, Kern, Kermit, Kura, Kuri, Kuro, Kuron.

Descriptors: Curly, Curt, Curvaceous, Kurdish, Kirsome, Cursed.

Random: Currency, Current, Currant, Curtsy, Curtain, Curb, Curmudgeon, Curry, Curfew, Kirghiztan, Kirkland, Kernel, Colonel.

**Colonel. **

_Of course. _

Obvious, wasn't it? Because he has noticed the shift, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. The people who knew Moran's name were less like customers who believed they were acting under their own free will and the invisible hand of the market, and more like obedient soldiers and terrified civilians. The web, or what's left of it, is now being run by a commanding officer.

The mobile in Sherlock's hand buzzes. It's the one he took from the woman; he's been turning it over and over in his hand, waiting. He shifts (careful not to disturb John, whose head is nestled on his right arm and has put it completely to sleep) so that he can see it better, and flips it open.

_You ruined my date. _

It's from an undisclosed number, of course.

_You should've invited me, _Sherlock types.

_Jealous? Sorry, Three's a crowd. _

_But it's me you want. _

_Wrong. _

A shiver crawls up Sherlock's spine.

_What do you want? _

_John Watson. _

_What do you plan to do with him? _

_Dinner? A movie? Just let things unfold? _

_Your game will blow up in your face, just like it did for Moriarty._

_I'm not him. This isn't a game._

_What is it?_

_A hunt. _

_You may find that you are the prey. _

Sherlock goes back to turning the mobile over and over in his long fingers. He knows very well who the prey is.

* * *

_I need a gun._ It's the first thought that comes to him as he opens his eyes to the cold morning air.

"I need a gun," he says out loud. Then he jumps, because he's discovered he is wrapped up in Sherlock's arms. Then he remembers, and relaxes a little bit, but only a little.

"Yes," Sherlock's deep voice rumbles behind John's head. "Take mine for now. You'll make better use of it anyway."

"Ok, but I need my own."

"We'll get you one."

"But not from Mycroft?"

"No."

John sighs. He really liked that gun. He sits up, stretches, and notices the mobile in Sherlock's hand.

"Any word from our friend?"

"Yes… He's disappointed that you couldn't join him last night."

"Ah. Did he mention what he planned to do with me?"

"He provided some information." John is not pleased with the indirect way Sherlock answered that question. "It's obvious that he's using you to get to me." Sherlock winces. "Again."

"Yes, alright, it's a pattern," John says hurriedly. Let's stop this train before it leaves the station, he thinks. "People are going to keep doing that, it's fine. Perfect team, remember? Your brain, my… gun, is it? Is that what I bring to the table? Except I don't have one. Next time can we please plant your gun on the bodies of our enemies?"

Sherlock chuckles, momentarily diverted. John sighs with relief.

"So we'll just have to find him before he finds us. What have you figured out?"

"He's a Colonel."

John's eyes widen.

Sherlock smirks. "He outranks you. Will you have to take orders from him instead of me?"

"Not funny."

Sherlock shrugs.

"And I don't take orders from you."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Sod off. What else do you have?"

"Moran is the 426th most popular surname in the UK. There are 13,733 of them. I previously narrowed that number down to 3,483 Morans that fall within the right age range. 517 of those are listed in or have a strong connection to London; 194 have definitely been in London at points when I believe our Moran was here, although that obviously doesn't rule out the possibility that other Morans could have been in London at those times too. I haven't found an overlap with Moriarty for any of them and it's unlikely that Moran has an official presence anyway. I still don't have a first name, a physical description, anything. Not even a voice. He learned that trick from Moriarty, using others as his voice."

"Do you think he's another Moriarty?"

"No. No, there will never be another Moriarty." Sherlock's voice sounds almost wistful. John doesn't try to hide the look of disgust on his face. Sherlock sees it, of course, and shrugs in response. "Moran is clever, but not brilliant. He has a sense of humor, but he's not having fun." There, again, that tinge of nostalgia in Sherlock's voice. "He's simply doing what he set out to do."

"Which is what?"

"Get to me through you, as I said." Sherlock frowns.

"But now you've got his rank," John reminds him.

"Yes! Which should make it child's play to winnow those 194 Morans down to one, provided that he's very, very stupid." He stretches and stands. "I need my laptop. We've got to swing by the flat."

"Thank god. I am not spending another night in your arms. And you're eating something today." Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John hardens his face in a way that he's found effective at least occasionally. It seems to work this time, as Sherlock pouts but shuts up. "You're eating, and that's the end of it."

* * *

"Right. Report to me as soon as you have visual." Sebastian hangs up his call and put his mobile back in his pocket.

Who could've guessed this quarry would be so hard to track? He seems so unassuming and ordinary, but he refuses to get caught and he's thrown the plan all off schedule. It's a bit of a nuisance, but also a bit of a pleasant surprise.

Dr. John Watson. No one, until he somehow attached himself to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. No one, until he started poking and prodding at James Moriarty. James Moriarty. Someone unlike anyone else in the world.

Sebastian is not a sentimental man, but he likes to know what things are, their size and shape and value. He knows something rare when he sees it, and he knows enough to value what is truly unique. He doesn't expect much in return. He doesn't expect much, in general.

Revenge is for the sentimental. Jim is dead, and therefore doesn't give a rat's ass what Sebastian does. In the very unlikely event that Jim is enjoying an afterlife somewhere, he is certainly not thinking about Sebastian. He barely thought about Sebastian in this life. If anything, he is snickering over the delicious mess he made of Sherlock Holmes. Sebastian never really saw the humor in that, to be honest. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble. Jim called him pedestrian and banal but Sebastian just thought he was being pragmatic. There are so many ways to destroy a life. Why make it more elaborate than it needs to be?

For Jim, of course, that was a ludicrous question. Might as well ask a peacock why it needs tailfeathers.

Jim went out exactly the way he wanted to, and the most sentiment that Sebastian will allow himself is to be happy about that. He can only hope that he'll be allowed the same privilege.

So this is not about revenge at all. Nor is it about symmetry, or finishing what Jim started. Sebastian doesn't do much for others. It's for himself.

When he realized Sherlock Holmes was alive and hacking his way through the lower echelons of his network, Sebastian's first impulse was to kill him.

Upon further reflection, he thought he'd reactivate the snipers. Clearly Sherlock had failed to hold up his end of the bargain, so all rules of fair play dictated that the contract be carried out. But then he realized that would be dull.

Dull never used to bother him before. He was an army man, he appreciated routine and discipline, even if he was clear which side of the discipline he wanted to be on. After that, he was a free agent, he had self-discipline, plenty of work across four continents, and he saw fear reflected back at him wherever he went. It wasn't a bad life. But then Jim showed up – a dizzying explosion of madness and genius and shrapnel (literally, there was an explosion). Jim hired him for one job, and when it was done Sebastian had to stay and see what he would do next. Another job, and another, and Jim became his priority. He took other jobs while Jim was gone, but he'd drop everything when Jim came back, just to see what he would do.

And then Jim blew a hole through his head on top of St. Bart's.

And since then, there's been no color. Gaining control of Jim's network has been interesting, challenging even, but not amazing, not surprising. Killing people is work. Hurting people just isn't the same. Together – Jim's whirling, glittering insanity and Sebastian's cool, razor-sharp focus – they terrified so many people out of their minds. Of course Sebastian can be terrifying on his own, but no, it's not the same.

Sherlock Holmes, however, is unpredictable; at least, Jim had given no indication that he predicted his survival. Sherlock Holmes is interesting. Jim always thought so.

And then, Sebastian considered the most unlikely source of Sherlock Holmes' unpredictability. Dr. John Watson. So unassuming, so ordinary, but clearly exceptional to command Sherlock Holmes' attention and sacrifice. So unexpected.

Sebastian is not a philosopher. He doesn't spend a lot of time wondering what makes a man a man, or any of that rubbish. He does, however, spend a lot of time thinking about pain.

If Watson is truly exceptional, Sebastian wants to know. And then he wants to ask him, what is pain for a man like you? And then he'll find out.


	7. Chapter 7

The flat was clean, but they were in and out as quickly as possible. Now they're crouched in a doorway, sitting on their gear, blankets around their shoulders. They look like a couple of homeless men which, actually, they are. John faces out to the street to keep watch while Sherlock faces the other way so that passersby won't see his laptop. There's free wi-fi on this block.

Sherlock grunts.

"Share with the class, please," John says curtly.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran. Court-martialed in 2003 for assault of a fellow soldier. Then disappeared. Hm, the victim died from his wounds shortly thereafter." Sherlock falls silent.

"That's all?"

"As I said, he disappeared."

"No one can disappear from you."

Sherlock grits his teeth. John's faith is becoming annoying. He's stuck. He's been stuck, for a while now. None of his 194 London Morans are Colonels or Sebastians. Of course there was no way it was going to be that easy. He's starting to worry that this Colonel Sebastian Moran will not be found until he wants to be found, and that physically hurts.

"Sherlock…" That tone is not good. That's the I'm-going-to-say-something-you-don't-want-me-to-say tone. "Why aren't you calling Mycroft?"

"I do not need rescuing," Sherlock snaps.

"No, you certainly don't," John agrees. "But, I'm sorry, but I can't stop thinking this could be over much more quickly with the resources he could provide. So as I'm sitting here in a doorway, freezing and hungry and looking for mysterious shadowy persons who intend to steal me away and do unknown things to me, I'm wondering…. Is this just about your pride?"

"No." Stupid question, stupid John. There's no way Sherlock can trust Mycroft now. It's now been established that Mycroft is capable of monstrous lapses in judgment. That changes everything. "We're better off without him, believe me."

John sighs and hunches his shoulders.

Sherlock knows Mycroft texts John every day or two. He sees John read the messages, frown, bite the inside of his cheek, but he hasn't seen John reply. Yet. He narrows his eyes and leans into him. "And don't you _dare_ contact him behind my back."

John jerks away and his eyes widen, like he's actually hurt. "I wouldn't do that," he says. He sounds angry. "I think you're being a childish git about this, but I would never do that." He turns back to face the street.

Sherlock isn't sure what he's done that was not good. He glowers at his laptop. Then he slams it shut, slips it into his bag, and rises in one long fluid motion. . "Let's go get you some food," he says, as if making a great sacrifice, and extends a hand to help John stand.

* * *

Hypervigilance is nothing new.

First, it's your father's fists. Later, your stepfather's. So you walk through your home on edge, smelling which rooms and doorways to avoid, predicting when to leave or not to come home at all, exchanging silent warnings with your sister, watching your mum carefully for any tidbits of information, choosing in a split second between strategies of appeasement, combat, or flight.

Outside is better but not much because you've got to keep an eye out for the other kids in the neighborhood, to know when a game is about to become a battle, to hear the challenge creep into an bigger boy's voice, to tell the difference between taking a beating you need to take and suicide.

And then you're in an actual war and they are shooting at you and throwing bombs at you and there are days when it seems like the world will never stop shaking. There are officers and soldiers everywhere with desperation and destruction in their eyes, and you're grateful to the men in your life who taught you to see that look coming and step out of the way. There are hot, dusty streets, washed out with too much sun, where nothing stirs, and you learn to fear that particular silence more than anything. There's a hole in your shoulder, you never saw that bullet coming and you hate yourself for that, you swear it will never happen again.

And then you're running through the back alleys of London and you have no idea why, cold air tearing through your lungs as you try desperately to keep up with a madman, adrenaline rushing to the surface of your skin. All your senses are on full alert. Colors are brighter, sounds are more distinct. Run, climb, jump, shoot, fight. You do things that need to be done. You do them well.

So if you wake up one day and discover someone is after you specifically, nothing changes much.

You see everything. Maybe you don't _observe_, but you see, you hear, you smell, your amygdala processes, and you act. When you're not moving, you are very, very still. You disappear. Everyone is a potential combatant, even more so than in Afghanistan, where uniforms at least meant something. Everything is a potential weapon. You have to sleep, but you sleep lightly, even though there's an overprotective insomniac lurking nearby. And if he's not there when you wake up, you know, even before you open your eyes.

* * *

It's not that he's bad at it. To the contrary, he does the job efficiently and ruthlessly. He wears power well, always has. He's doesn't flaunt it, but he understands it's a muscle that must be constantly used, stretched, pushed to its limits, or it will atrophy.

But the truth is, he'd rather be on the ground. Jim got a rush out of being at the center of the web, watching all the monitors, making hundreds of people dance with a flick of his finger. Sebastian likes it too, but it's not what he was designed for.

Sebastian misses the hunt. Tracking his prey, ever closer, drawing it in… it's not the same through a mobile phone or a computer screen. He can't smell fear that way. He especially misses the moment when his body settles into itself and everything becomes so clear and easy, fixing his sight on the target, wrapping his finger around the smooth trigger, the whole world going still just for him, and that one simple motion that ends the hunt.

He's never been one to stay and gloat over the body. If it was his job to take care of it, he would, and if not, he'd be gone by the time it hit the ground. Death doesn't hold any deep meaning for him. It's just that he's so good at killing.

His mobile vibrates silently. He doesn't care for ringtones. Once, Jim reprogrammed his ringtones without telling him and was in Italy by the time it happened, so there Sebastian was, in the middle of an intense negotiation with a pair of assassins he'd subcontracted for an overseas job, when suddenly Justin Bieber was singing "Baby Baby" from his trousers. The fact that Sebastian had to kill both of the subcontractors only made Jim laugh harder when he heard about it.

"Go ahead, Ayres," Sebastian grunts.

"Have visual on target, sir. Started tailing them three minutes ago. Now in Peckham, in an alley parallel to Brookmill. Headed north toward the canal."

"Alert the team. Keep me informed. If possible, execute tonight."

"Yes sir."

Sebastian hangs up and lights a cigarette. He briefly considers heading down there himself, but he has to accept that his life has shifted. He's got a meeting tonight anyway – someone has to supervise the Mittal hostage situation – and he'll be able to monitor the mission closely over the phone. Ayres is a competent soldier and will get the job done.


	8. Chapter 8

The cat crouches down, twitches its tail slightly, and goes so still its black body almost melts into the shadows. On the other side of the rubbish bin, a rat skitters back and forth, seemingly oblivious. It disappears under the bin for a moment, then reappears off to the side. Some morsel has caught its attention, bringing it a little closer to the cat. Just close enough. And then, just a bit closer.

The cat strikes, uncoiling into one long shining black line. For a moment it seems like it has the rat under its paws but then somehow, the rodent is streaking away, its tail slipping between claws. The rat is gone.

Sherlock, leaning his forehead against the window, watches the cat stretch and stroll down the center of the street, its tail high and swaying slowly.

He steeples his fingers in front of his lips and frowns. This vacant warehouse in Peckham will work for tonight, but they're moving every day or two now. John must know, though Sherlock refuses to admit it: he doesn't have any idea what to do. Most of his contacts dried up while he was gone; he can't get any reliable information from the streets. He's almost out of money for bribes. He has no access to official sources; he's still dead and wanted on several felony charges. All he can do now is stand in the river, wait for bits of data to drift by, and hope that he's still clever enough to catch them when they do. It's agonizing. It's dangerous.

Maybe John is right. Sherlock chews on his bottom lip and turns away from the window to look at him, curled up under his sleeping bag, sleeping lightly. He only sleeps lightly now. Doesn't dream.

Maybe he should call Mycroft. It's not like he has a plethora of other options. It's not like Mycroft can make the situation much worse. Oh, but he can.

Still, John can't keep this up forever. Sherlock can go on for a good while longer, has been. But John needs real sleep, real food, a bed instead of cold hard floors that destroy his shoulder. Sherlock has noticed, of course, the way he carries it, protects it, winces and massages it when he thinks Sherlock's not looking. And at the moment, there's no end in sight. If nothing else, he can ask Mycroft for a decent gun.

Sherlock turns back to the window just in time to see a familiar black car glide up to the curb, as if it was manifested by his own thoughts. Most people would find that disconcerting, but most people haven't been dealing with the likes of Mycroft their entire lives. Sherlock wonders what that's like. A long leg wrapped in a sleek black knee-high boot emerges from the back seat, and then a statuesque young woman with olive skin and shining black hair swept up in a loose bun stands on the sidewalk, pulling an expensive wool wrap around her. She looks directly up at Sherlock and meets his eyes. Then she looks down, types something on her mobile, and drops it in the voluminous folds of her wrap. She looks up again and stares at Sherlock, expressionless. He's never seen her before. New assistant? He's been gone a long time, and she certainly fits the profile.

Sherlock glances back at John. Wake him? No, he needs this sleep, that much is obvious. It'll only be a second anyway. He'll ask to see Mycroft in person; if he's going to humiliate himself like this, might as well go all the way. Sherlock spins away from the window and heads down the stairs.

As he exits the building, the woman says, "Mr. Holmes," nods professionally, and opens the rear car door. Sherlock is about to say "No, I'm not going anywhere," when he sees it: her body tensing almost imperceptibly, and a flick of her eyelashes as she very intentionally does not look up at the second story of the building. He spins around and runs back into the building, taking the stairs three at a time, yelling _"JOHN!"_

* * *

He's already cocking his gun and scooting back towards the wall before he's consciously registered that something is wrong. Something is wrong. Someone is here and it's not Sherlock. Two shapes, three. Shadows, with just enough form to aim and fire. The first shape stumbles, and now there's crossfire. John crawls across the floor – there's really nothing to shield him in this room, but at least he can get himself into a corner and out of the light. There's Sherlock's voice now, yelling up the stairs. John takes aim and fires again, and the first shape falls with a thump. For a split second, no one is shooting. Then suddenly something knocks him back into the wall, he expects to feel something like a flame tearing through his chest, but there's only a sting. He tries to grab for it and oh here's Sherlock finally, why is Sherlock running so slow, "Sherlock, where'd you –"

* * *

Sebastian stubs his cigarette with one quick motion. "Ayres, this is unacceptable."

"Yes sir," she replies. Although she's dressed like an elegant debutante, she is standing like a soldier, at parade rest with her head high.

"You had the target, and you lost him."

"Yes sir. We've swept the area completely, sir."

"He's disappeared without a trace."

"We haven't found him, sir."

"Blackwood is down."

"Yes sir."

"You're sure he's dead."

"Saw to it myself, sir."

"Tell me where it went wrong."

"I don't know, sir. Holmes came outside, turned around and ran back in."

"You're saying he took one look at you and knew something was wrong." He narrows his steel blue eyes. "Why would that be?"

"I don't know sir. It was all exactly as we discussed."

Sebastian steps forward, his face almost touching hers, and inhales deeply. This is what he means by smelling fear. "This is inexcusable. I do not tolerate incompetence."

"Yes sir."

"Until now, I considered you one of my more competent soldiers. Before tonight's stupidity, you've been consistently smart and efficient." He shakes his head, then turns back to raise an eyebrow. "Ayres, I'm going to give you a second chance.."

Her eyes widen just slightly. "Sir?"

"Unusually generous of me, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes sir."

"I'm sure you understand this means that if you let me down a second time, your punishment will be twice as slow and twice as painful."

"Yes sir."

"But equally deadly."

"Yes sir."

"You'll be on the next mission, and there will be no mistakes. I'll be leading this one. If you want something done right, do it yourself. It's what I should have done in the first place. Go put on some real clothes, Ayres, you look ridiculous."

"Yes sir."


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock sits with his knees pressed up against his lips, his hands wrapped around his legs, watching John. He'll give it a couple more minutes, he thinks, and then he'll start exploring artificial methods of reviving him.

John starts to stir. Sherlock heaves a sigh of relief.

"_Fuck._" John's voice is hoarse and slurred. "Sherlock?"

"I'm here." Sherlock casually rests his face in his hand so that John can't see his smile.

"Fuck, my head. What… um, what?"

"Tranquilizer dart to the chest."

"Oh. _Oh._ Yeah, I… Three of them. I remember." John accepts the water bottle Sherlock's offered him and takes a long drink. "I think I got one. Did I? Where did you go?"

"You got him. The other two, and the woman on the street, all got away. I was outside." Sherlock's voice is clipped, he intends to get through this as quickly as possible. "I saw a black car, a woman, I thought it was Mycroft, and I went outside. It was a trap, of course. It was exceedingly stupid."

"Sherlock," John groans, his hand on his head. "It's not stupid. Anyone could've made that mistake."

"_Anyone?_" Sherlock roars, and immediately regrets it, because John's face looks like his head has been split down the center with a steak knife. "_Anyone?_" he whispers harshly, his eyes flaming. "I'm not _anyone_. I didn't _think_. It was foolhardy, impulsive, irresponsible…"

"Yeah, well, come to think of it that does sound like you." John is trying to sit up, and it looks like hard work. Sherlock quickly scoots over to sit next to him and positions his shoulder for him to lean on. "Anyway," John continues, "you came back in time."

"You got shot in the chest. If it was a bullet, you'd be dead."

"Well, it wasn't a bullet. Why is this Moran so obsessed with tranquilizers anyway?"

"Wants to make sure you get a good night's sleep? Mad he couldn't get a job at the zoo?" They both chuckle.

"No, really, Sherlock. I've been kidnapped before… Jesus, quite a few times now… Without needles and darts. When Moriarty got me, his people just used a gun."

"Moran must know that you'll die before you let that happen again."

They are both silent for a moment. A light rain patters outside.

"Well, that's true," John says finally. "Where are we?"

"An old culvert by the canal. We can't stay long; the local junkies frequent this spot, we'll have no peace here."

"Our stuff?"

"I only got the backpack with the laptops, your med kit, the gun." Only that and you, Sherlock thinks, remembering how he practically threw himself down the stairs with John's unconscious body draped across his back, scurried across the street and through the alleys, pushed John through a hole in a fence and literally rolled him down a slope, all the while inhaling adrenaline and exhaling fear.

"Sherlock. Thank you."

Sherlock snorts. "You see, this is why I didn't want you to come." He bites his lip and hopes John understands what he means.

"Yeah. What are we going to do?"

"I don't know." Sherlock looks out at the rain. "I was thinking of calling Mycroft last night, but I can't now. Maybe Moran knows enough about him to adequately mimic him, or maybe he has someone in Mycroft's circle. There's no way to find out without drawing attention to our location. If Mycroft is compromised, if Moran has access to his resources, that's a risk I can't afford."

"We."

"What?"

"A risk _we_ can't afford."

"Oh. Yes." We. Still sharing a pair of handcuffs. Sherlock frowns. "He wants you," he announces, staring John down. "This operation was about you, not me. I was to be distracted, not captured. You're the prize."

John's eyes widen in surprise. "Why?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Moriarty used you to control me. He didn't pay any attention to you beyond that. Moran… sees something different. He's not trying to control me, he's interested in hurting me. Through you. And also, I think, in hurting you."

The words settle over the two of them

"I know what to do," Sherlock says finally, his voice rumbling low. He looks at John out of the corner of his eyes. "You won't like it." He drops his head in his hands. "I can't find him, John. I've hit a brick wall." John exhales. Sherlock looks up to meet his eyes. Yes, he already knows. John has known he's lost and keeps following him anyway. John, who has never lost faith in him, knows he's failed and keeps faith anyway. Remarkable. Moron. Why did he ever move into Baker Street?

"Go on," John urges gently.

"Alright. I can't find him with my current resources. And he can afford to wait. This could go on for... for a very long time. But if he's only hunting you, not me, that frees me up as another hunter. I… _we_ put you someplace visible, someplace irresistible, to draw him out, and the hunter becomes the prey."

"Sherlock," John lowers his voice and narrows his eyes. "Are you saying you want to use me as _bait?_ All that rubbish you said about protecting me and saving my life… did you mean any of that?"

Sherlock leans forward, inches away from John's face, grabs his arm and glowers down at him. "I meant every word," he answers, over-enunciating, eyes flashing. "I will protect you with my life, don't you _ever_ doubt that."

They stare at each other, unblinking, for a long moment.

Finally Sherlock lets his hand fall. "But yes, I do intend to use you as bait."

* * *

"Self-centered, short-sighted, _arrogant_ wanker. You propose to dangle me out in the breeze like a fresh piece of meat so that you, by yourself, can take down criminal mastermind Sebastian Moran and whatever bloody army he's brought along with him, just like that? And you expect me to just throw my life around like that because you think you can pull it off?"

"Not by myself; you'll be armed too. We need better guns. And he's not a criminal mastermind, I think he's more of a criminal general. But yes."

"And we'd have no backup of any kind?"

"Who would back us up, John?"

"Well, if not Mycroft…" John considers this. Even Lestrade is suspended and disgraced and there's no one at the Yard they can trust. "No one. Right." Suddenly he feels all of it deep in his gut, impossibly heavy, a mass of dark matter pulling him down. He's being hunted to the ground and there's really no one who can help. Except Sherlock. And there really is no one like Sherlock Holmes. He chuckles.

"John?"

He shakes his head and laughs.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, sod it all, I'm in." He grins. "I trust you, mate."

"You are? You do?" Sherlock is on the verge of regaining composure, but he seems genuinely surprised.

"I do, always have."

A slow smile unfolds across Sherlock's face. "You're completely insane," he says with a just a touch of admiration.

"You're just getting that now?" John giggles. He doesn't understand the expression of pain that twists across Sherlock's face in response.

* * *

Sebastian steps out of the shower and towels off. Torturing a prisoner, though it doesn't bring as much joy as it used to, is still a decent way to blow off steam and it helps him think. A workout and hot shower afterwards is just the thing.

He wraps the towel around his waist, goes into the bedroom, and sits at the desk next to the window. He picks up his phone and absentmindedly strokes his thumb across the screen. Sebastian's never been much of a conversationalist. The back and forth, for him, isn't about playing the game, dropping clues, or any of the frivolity Jim indulged in. It's just about fear.

_You crashed my party again. You're only prolonging the inevitable. _

_Which is what? _

_John Watson's agonizing, unimaginable pain. _

_Why? _

_Because I want it. I have plans…._

_You can't have him. _

_Can and will. If you could stop me, you'd have found me by now. _

_It's me you want. _

_No, we've been over this. _

_Calling your bluff. You're using him to get to me. How inefficient. Just take me. _

Sebastian taps the phone against the desk thoughtfully. Well, this is interesting. Faking your death is one thing, but throwing yourself into the arms of your enemies is quite another. It's unlikely, to say the least.

_How noble. Calling your bluff. Midnight, Southwark Bridge._

_Not like that. You'll have to hunt me. But I've sent John off on his own. _

_Left him defenseless in this big bad world? You wouldn't._

_Would and did. If you go after him I won't rescue him. If you go after me I promise to be much more interesting prey. Your boss thought so. _

Then there's just one more message from Holmes.

_Come and play. _

Sebastian lights a cigarette, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, blows a long stream of smoke. Of course Holmes believes this is all about him. He couldn't possibly make sense of it otherwise, could he? And of course he believes that, given the option, any hunter would choose him over ordinary John Watson. The delusion of brilliance, dazzling even its owner to the point of blindness. This suits Sebastian fine. Watson is wide open.


	10. Chapter 10

The empty house on the other side of Baker Street was a lucky break. From here, Sherlock has a perfect vantage point of the whole block. There's no way into the building from the back; anyone looking for a shot at John will have to approach from the street. And if tranquilizer darts are still the weapon of choice, then it will have to happen in the flat.

Sherlock crouches down in front of the window and checks the sight on his sniper rifle. Thanks to the vestiges of his connections and a few straggling outstanding favors, they were able to transform the last of their money, both their laptops, and a handful of questionable promises into this rifle and a Sig Sauer P226R for John. Sherlock would have traded his coat for the look in John's eyes when he turned that gun in his hand. He makes a mental note to make sure John always has the latest army issue firearms, particularly those banned on British soil.

He waits for the light to come on in 221B. And then he'll wait some more. Moran's people might not even come tonight, but Sherlock thinks they will. If Moran believed his texts, he'll want to strike while the opportunity is open.

* * *

The last time John walked away from 221B Baker Street, he was not at all sure he would ever return. He figured eventually Mrs. Hudson would insist that he come and clean out the flat, and at that point he'd either do it, or else he'd tell her to just throw it all out, all of it, and be done with it. She never asked. He now suspects that's because Mycroft has been paying the rent.

He stands in front of 221A and raises his hand, then lets it drop at his side. It's embarrassing, but the truth is he's a horrible liar, just like Sherlock always says. It's not even that he's such a moral person. He really doesn't have a problem with lying to serve a greater purpose like, oh, for example, saving his life and restoring Sherlock's. It's just that he's so bad at it. Still, it's what needs to be done. He raises his hand again and knocks.

Mrs. Hudson opens the door and gasps. One hand flutters to her throat and the other reaches for him and pulls him inside. Her flat smells like it always has done, of tea and baking and herbal soothers, and it's bathed in that warm yellow light that he remembers.

"John," she says, "oh, John, it's so good to see you! How are you?"

"Hullo, Mrs. Hudson," he says fondly, "I've really missed you." And that part is not a lie. "I've come round… I'm so sorry for the interruption, I know I should've called first, but I thought I just needed to come straight here while I had my courage up. I've come to go through the things. In the flat. Like I said I would."

"Oh, John." She hugs him so tightly that for just a moment he feels confused, like he's dreamed all of this and actually Sherlock's still dead, he's still all alone, and Mrs. Hudson feels sorry for him because his heart is breaking all over her kitchen floor. His chest constricts like he might cry. Mrs. Hudson hears the hitch in his breathing and hugs him even tighter.

"Hrm." John makes a little noise in his throat and shakes his head. It's not a dream and he's got an ache in his pectoral muscle and a strange little mark from the tranquilizer dart to prove it. Sherlock is alive and just across the street. He suddenly realizes that when you count all the times John thought he was alone and was actually being followed by Sherlock, this is the farthest away he's been since the night he appeared in John's flat. It's uncomfortable. When this is all over, and they find their lives again, and John goes to work or to the pub, and Sherlock gallops around the city being Sherlock, they won't be within whispering distance of each other at all times. Not very often at all, in fact. That will take some getting used to.

He clears his throat. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I know I should've come ages ago."

"Oh don't be silly, dear. It's alright. This isn't easy. I've just been so worried about you."

"Thank you, I'm really doing fine."

"Are you?" She arches an eyebrow. "You look…"

"I know." He looks like hell on a bad day. He snuck into a gym earlier so he could at least take a shower, but he hasn't shaved in weeks. His clothes were disgusting and his pack got left behind in Peckham, so he stole some clothes from the locker room and they're too big, exaggerating how thin he's become. He looks truly terrible.

He squares his shoulders and straightens his back, trying for the expression of a brave soldier marching to his death. "Mrs. Hudson, I hate to ask you this, especially since I just came barging in without any warning, but I… This is going to be… difficult for me, and I… Well, I … I would really appreciate some privacy while I'm upstairs. Perhaps you could go sit with Mrs. Turner for a bit? I am so sorry to ask."

"John." He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at her face; her voice is bad enough, so full of warmth and sympathy. "Of course. Take as much time as you need. I was just thinking of going for a pint, actually. Let me just get my coat…" She pauses. "Are you sure you wouldn't like some company? I can be down here just in case. I'd hate to –"

"Please, no. I really would appreciate it."

"Of course."

"And Mrs. Hudson? When you come back, just please… No need to look in on me."

"I won't bother you, dear."

She lets John into 221B and leaves. He sighs with relief and climbs the stairs.

Memories are flooding back with each step (how could there be so many in really such a short time?) but there is no time for that now. John flicks on the light in the living room to signal Sherlock that he's arrived, and goes back downstairs to set up the trip wire.

* * *

"Sir. He's entered the flat, alone."

"Still no sign of Holmes?"

"Last report was at Bromley this morning, 0500. Watson's been on his own all day, sir."

"It's early yet. Stand by; we'll take up positions in about an hour, on my mark. Haque and McMann, with me. Ayres, you'll cover us. Lewis, east route. Chen, west. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"If Holmes shows up, shoot to kill."

"Yes, sir."

"We take Watson alive."

"Yes, sir."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock rolls the stiffness out of his neck and repositions the rifle on his shoulder. His eyes flit up and down Baker Street but are drawn back again and again to the warm light in the windows of 221B. There were so many cold, wet, horrible nights alone when he fixated on the memory of the crackling fire, the decadent embrace of the Corbusier, and a glass of Cognac. There was one memory in particular, and Sherlock could never figure out what significant data it contained, why he hadn't deleted it, but he came back to it over and over: John sitting across from him with a hot toddy, mocking Sherlock's interviewing techniques earlier that day, needling him relentlessly until finally Sherlock gave in and threw his head back and laughed. It felt good. And why is that memory circling back again?

At this moment, he should be utterly focused, and he should be able to maintain that focus for as many hours as it takes. He returns to scanning up and down Baker Street, zeroing in on every slowing car, checking every pedestrian for signs of hidden weapons or too much interest in 221.

There's a faint click behind him and down the stairs. Sherlock freezes. It's the back door. He scoots silently away from the window, disappearing into the shadows. If he shoots the intruder, he'll alert the entire block to his presence. If he doesn't, he can only assume he'll be killed.

A figure dressed in black appears in the doorway. He recognizes her immediately, the woman from the car, the one he stupidly assumed to be Mycroft's assistant. She holds her gun in front of her as her eyes quickly take in the entire room, including the blind spots in the corners. Keeping her gun raised and close to her body, she creeps toward the window, and toward Sherlock. She's scanning the room and in the next instant she'll catch him in the corner of her eye. He propels himself forward, hurling into her side with his center of gravity low, throwing her off balance and knocking the gun out of her hand, his arm around her waist and his body fitting around hers like a puzzle, following it through to the floor, where they both land with a soft grunt.

He's sitting on her chest, pinning her arms with his knees, his hands on her throat. He has questions, and she can answer some of them. But John is across the street and there's no time.

"Kill me," she whispers. Her eyes are desperate. He puts one hand on her forehead, one on her chin, and jerks them clockwise.

Sherlock spins around and reaches the window just in time to see a black-clad body slipping through the door of 221B. In one fluid motion, he drops to the floor, sets the rifle on his shoulder, aims it through the open window at the disappearing leg of the figure below, and fires.

* * *

John has been puttering around the flat for hours now, appearing to sort through things and pack them into boxes, but really looking for bugs, clearing sight lines and escape paths, and generally keeping visible.

It's surreal. Everything is essentially how they left it, down to the mannequin dangling from a noose in the doorway to the kitchen. John sneezes. There's a lot of dust, that's the main difference, but then the flat was never actually clean when they lived there.

He's intensely aware of his vulnerability. Everything depends on the Sig in his pocket and Sherlock's rifle across the street. He wonders if Mycroft is watching and whether that would be good or bad.

He hears a crack and freezes. That's the rifle. No answering fire. A muffled sound at the bottom of the stairs. He eases his gun out of his pocket and backs up slowly across the living room, crossing in front of the window so that Sherlock can see he's still standing.

In the kitchen, he backs himself into the corner between the two doors, holding the Sig up at the ready.

* * *

Sebastian spots the trip wire the moment he slips through the door. He smirks and gestures at Haque, in front of him, to make sure she sees it. He's about to turn around and point it out to McMann, bringing up the rear, when he hears a strangled gasp and a thump. McMann is down, holding his leg and biting his lip furiously to keep from screaming. He's been hamstrung. Probably Holmes, probably across the street, which probably means Ayres is down, and that's exactly what you get for giving someone a second chance after they fail you once. Sebastian reaches McMann in two long strides, grabs his head in both hands and snaps his neck. He pivots to face Haque, who's waiting at the base of the stairs, her face impassive. Sebastian jerks his chin and Haque nods, turns, and starts creeping up the staircase.

He's a fool. He realizes that. So quick to believe that Holmes would cut Watson loose. It made sense at the time, and that's all he can say for himself. He never pretended to be clever. But here they are, inside the building, and if they leave the way they came in Holmes will have his rifle trained on them. So there's no way to go but up. The mission is the same: capture John Watson. It's just that the hunt has become a bit more complicated. Sebastian concedes that Holmes was right; he has himself become the prey, for the moment at least. But he's still the hunter as well.


	12. Chapter 12

Such an incredibly stupid plan. Suicidal. Doomed to fail. But there was no other way out.

Sherlock concentrates on breathing, which is difficult work. Someone is in 221B and everything is telling him, screaming at him, that he should be there too. But someone needs to be here with a sniper rifle in case they succeed and carry John out that door. And there's no one else to do it. Such a laughably stupid plan. If only there had been another one.

He sees John crossing the living room and slipping into the kitchen, disappearing into the corner between the two doors. Good, that's a good defensive position. John has geography on his side, he knows this flat like the back of his hand and has spent the last couple hours rearranging furniture. He's a good shot. There have been approximately 20,000 total casualties in Afghanistan so far. Between 700 and 800 coalition troops, but not John. He served three and a half six-month tours before his discharge, including two tours in the Helmand Province. Colonel Sebastian Moran can't possibly be deadlier than the Taliban.

* * *

He should be able to hear footsteps on the stairs, but there's nothing. They're very good. Or did he imagine that sound below? No, there it is, the creak on the tenth stair. Pre-Sherlock, he would have known that one or two of his stairs creaked. Post-Sherlock, he knows that the tenth stair creaks low no matter where you put your weight, whereas the eleventh stair creaks – higher – only if you step in the middle. The fourth creaks only on humid days.

There's no more sound from the tenth stair, but you wouldn't expect the second person to make the same mistake as the first.

They've reached the top of the stairs. There's just the slightest shadow across the crack of light at the bottom of the door. And another. Two people, probably. So one will approach the door to the kitchen and the other the living room.

John counts silently and then spins to the left, kicking through the door to the landing and firing before he knows what's on the other side. He sees the woman's eyes go wide as her body jerks and falls back and partway down the stairs. He pulls back into the corner in the kitchen and listens to the footsteps approaching through the living room. The mannequin sways just slightly, disturbed by the movement of the person behind it. John throws himself around the corner to the left, running through the landing. Pain sears through his right leg. Real bullets this time; they might still be intent on taking him alive but they'll shoot his legs off if they have to. Somewhere in the back of his mind he's relieved; bullets, he understands.

He grits his teeth and ignores the pain in his leg. Once, he loaded several wounded soldiers into a truck and had started treating them before he realized how badly he'd been shot.

In the landing, he sidles against the wall toward the door to the living room. It's dead silent in there.

John waits.

* * *

A hit on the right thigh. He'd aimed for the knee, hoping to pin him to the floor, but the thigh is a decent start and it's more than a flesh wound. Sebastian wishes he could switch to the tranquilizer, but the man already took out his last soldier, so he's sticking to bullets for now.

He waits in silence.

If Jim were here, he'd be purring right now, driving his quarry mad with taunts and flirtations. Or he'd be bursting into song. Or reciting riddles. Or who knows. Doing something unexpected.

Sebastian has always been content to lie in ambush; he's good at it. He's brought down many men through his ability to stay perfectly still until the moment is right. It's so simple, and yet the simplest truths are often the most difficult and the most profound. Staying still comes easily to Sebastian and it's what works. It's expected.

He uncoils and springs from the kitchen and through the living room, firing and he leaps through the door. He sees Watson's left shoulder snap back and thinks he hit, but in the same moment he feels the impact on his own shoulder, then on his chest, then the familiar searing pain ripping through the left side of his body and he's flying backwards into the floor. He has no idea where the third bullet hits, only that everything is falling away, walls, ceiling, light fixture, John Watson's face are falling away like dominoes and being replaced by darkness tunneling in and the last thing he thinks is, funny, I thought it would hurt so much more.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock has never run so fast. He leaps over one body in the doorway, a second on the stairs, and a third on the landing. None of them are John. He swings himself through the doorway and exhales a great, melting, shaking, sigh of relief. John is sitting on the sofa, smiling weakly at him. Smiling.

"You've been shot." Sherlock says sharply, and jabs his finger at John accusatorily. "You're _bleeding."_

"Yeah," John replies. "Good deduction there."

Sherlock frowns at the tremor in John's voice and drops to his knees next to the sofa to inspect his left shoulder. John shrugs him off. "Nah, that one's just a scratch. Can you believe he clipped my left bloody shoulder though? And they say lightning never strikes twice." He nods towards his right leg. "That one's a bit more nuisance."

Sherlock quickly scoots over to John's other side to take a closer look.

"I guess that limp won't be psychosomatic now," John grimaces.

"Oh do shut up," Sherlock snaps. "It will heal just fine. Don't be so dramatic." He grabs hold of the trouser fabric where the bullet tore through it and pulls it apart.

"Ripping my clothes off again, Sherlock?" John chuckles faintly, but he's sweating and his whole body is starting to shake. "Don't you know people will talk?"

"I'll be terribly disappointed if they don't." Sherlock's mouth half-curls in a crooked smile. Then he continues to smile because the wound is deep, he's not at all sure that it will heal just fine, and he doesn't want John to see his worry.

"Sherlock, don't worry," John soothes. Damn him. "At least I'm not knocked out with a dart like an elephant on the savannah."

Sherlock's smile is genuine again. "Your phone, John?"

John jerks his chin toward his left pocket. Sherlock finds his mobile there and checks the messages.

_Reply immediately. Not optional._

_MH_

* * *

Sherlock looks up from the phone with a sigh. "Mycroft's on his way." John doesn't miss the flash of relief on his face, just before the expression of intense irritation.

It's only moments later that four special forces in full body armor come bounding up the steps, scanning their semiautomatics back and forth. John and Sherlock look up absently as they sweep the flat. "All clear," one of them crackles on a radio, and they cascade back down the stairs.

Then there's a woman's voice, clipped and professional, coming from below. "Nathan McMann. Former Marine, court-martialed 2008, assaults, homicides, fugitive. Two more have been apprehended on side streets, awaiting your recommendation. Another body across the street." The voice, and two sets of footsteps, climb the stairs. There's creaky number ten. "Kamala Haque. Drug-trafficking, kidnap, homicides, fugitive." The feet pause just outside the living room door.

"Of course," lilts Mycroft's voice. "The Ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran." He glides into the living room and raises an eyebrow at the two men there. "You've bagged Moran, Sherlock."

John's eyebrows shoot up. He glances over at Sherlock, whose disdainful expression implies he knew the name attached to that body all along. John knows he didn't. Sherlock says nothing, but tilts his head toward John.

"Ah." Mycroft inclines his head towards John and his voice actually suggests respect. "He came for you personally. You must have made quite an impression on him."

"I believe I did, yeah. Rather permanent one." The adrenaline is fading and the pain is coming over him in waves now.

Mycroft manages a tight smile. "You need to go to hospital, John. The ambulance is on its way. Sherlock, you will come with me." John feels his heart clench for a moment. Not ready for this, not just yet. He glances up quickly at Sherlock and sees the same tension in his face before they both look away.

"I see," Mycroft muses. "Well, then. Sherlock, go with John. I suppose I can see to it that you're not arrested for tonight, at least, provided that you do not leave the hospital. I've been working on your case, _naturally_, but it's far from settled. We can discuss your debt to society in the morning." A siren approaches. Mycroft nods at them again and turns to leave.

John can just barely hear him, as he descends the stairs, saying, "Anthea. Restore previous surveillance levels for Holmes and Watson." And the reply, "Already done."

A few minutes later, John's on a stretcher and Sherlock is climbing into the ambulance next to him. They both have orange shock blankets. The last drops of adrenaline are dissipating and the pain is in tsunamis. Everything is going blurry and gray.

"Sherlock," John murmurs. "I'm about to pass out."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock rumbles. "That's alright, isn't it? I'm not supposed to keep you awake?"

"No, it's fine. Don't worry. Just… be there when I wake up, will you?"

He feels a firm hand on his good arm. "Try not to be an idiot, John. Where else would I be?"


End file.
